Mr Darcy's Dreams
by FitzwilliamDarcysMistress
Summary: An exciting new story narrating what's before, during, and after the events in Pride & Prejudice through Mr. Darcy and his dreams. Become bewitched by Darcy's innermost thoughts, and learn some shocking things Jane Austen never told you...
1. Chapter 1

_Mr. Darcy's Dreams_

©2011, Ashley Visco

* * *

><p>Chapter I<p>

A Dark Shadow Called London

_He walked the foggy streets of London. The air was thick and dense, the smells of grime and alcohol penetrating his nostrils. It suffocated him._

_Much like everything else in London. _

_Suddenly a Dark Shadow of a man materialized from within' the foggy darkness. "Will ya be takin' a ride this evenin', gov'na?" Dark Shadow was a large man, a giant perhaps, who possessed no other distinguishable quality but that giant height. Darcy knew not if his eyes were blue or black or gray; he knew not the shape of his nose, whether it had a bump on its bridge or not, and truly the Shadow could be without a nose entirely and Darcy would not know it. He had no features at all, for he was in fact a Shadow. A melancholy Shadow which casts its cruel darkness on the light in life, Darcy's dreaming mind mused. _

_Perhaps it should be called London. _

_Darcy answered Mr. London in the affirmative, and suddenly he was in a carriage as dark and black as the night, the foggy streets now passing him in a blur as he blazed down the road. With every bump and swerve he saw the worst of what the city had to offer. Devilish drunks deviating down the street asking everyone they plowed into for another round, poor mothers unable to feed their poor children, sick beggars on their hands and knees desperate for a morsel of bread but knowing that no one cared to give them even a crumb, and worst of all…single women in town for the Season._

_"Da ya not like London, sir?" Mr. London the Dark Shadow asked him. Like London? He despised London. He loathed London. He wished he could kill London! (A rational thought it was not, but a thought none the less.) He wished he could strangle the life and soul out of it just as it did to him, and he told Shadow so. "Well, well, well," Shadow replied in a whisper, "ya must escape then." Without warning, like a shot, a brick wall appeared in front of them, not even giving Darcy enough time to scream before their inevitable crash-!_

Darcy awoke, panting and gasping for air.

Instantly upon him as he returned to reality were the loud, busy noises of town.

"God, I hate London."

After his shave and his bath and all the other little accoutrements of the morning, Fitzwilliam Darcy sat in the breakfast room of his London townhouse (a townhouse he would love to smash to bits with a sledgehammer if he could) rearranging the bits of ham on his plate. He was far too flustered about this stupid dream, but for the life of him he could not focus on his breakfast for thinking of it. After a good five minutes of staring at his plate, Darcy abandoned his food and reverted his attention to the morning's post. Bingley's letter in particular had been very interesting, and it seemed to call to him from among the stack. _"You must come to visit Netherfield and tell me what you think of it," _it said. _"Escape from town for a bit."_

_"Ya must escape then…"_

Escape….

Yes….

Yes, escape was precisely what he needed...


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter II

Water Falling From the Sky

"Darcy! By God, you are soaked to the skin!" Bingley instantly called for a servant to remove Darcy's sopping wet coat. "I had not expected you to arrive so soon, Darcy!"

So soon? There was no soon soon enough to get away from London.

"Well it was no trouble at all, Bingley, and I wanted to see you as soon as possible," Darcy lied. Actually it had been an immense amount of trouble making sure everything was prepared for his unexpected flight, and truthfully seeing Bingley could have been postponed a day or two. But Darcy was too good a friend to tell him that.

Bingley looked out the window, shaking his head in discontent. "Blasted rain." Although Darcy could not agree with Bingley's statement, he turned his gaze to the window as well and grumbled some affirmative. Actually, he quite liked rain. He believed it to be a sort of miracle, water falling from the sky. Naturally, anyone who heard this opinion believed him to be insane. Especially those blasted society females who would remark in a vain attempt to entice him, "Oh the weather is so very disagreeable, is not, Mr. Darcy?"

Damn them.

Well, he did not normally wish to curse in reference to women.

But if they were men,

Damn them.

"Darcy!" Bingley's call broke Darcy from his reverie. "Don't just stand here, Darcy, go change! All that water is making a puddle on my floor!" he yelled with a teasing laugh. Darcy smiled at his young friend and began to climb the staircase. Bingley had always had a way of bringing out the best in him. If there was any man in the world who could undoubtably make him smile, it was Bingley.

"Are you up for going out tonight, Darcy?"

The smile instantly fell.

"Out? Going out where?"

"Well," Bingley cautiously began as he nervously twiddled his fingers, "Caroline and Louisa and I were to attend the Assembly tonight, but I know how you dislike such things. If you do not wish to go I must stay here with you of course, which I will not mind too much seeing as you are my dearest friend, but if you should choose to go, the more the merrier I say!"

This had all been said so quickly and recklessly that at first Darcy could not distinguish one word from another. But the word Assembly stood out.

Fitzwilliam Darcy was terrible at assemblies. He was terrible at any social gathering really, but especially at assemblies. At an assembly there were too many people to ignore everyone and too little people to fade into the background unnoticed. And no one wanted him there. They didn't want him there, just as much as he didn't want himself there, Darcy was convinced.

But if he did not go, Bingley would not go. And then Bingley would be sad, which would make him sad, and then they would all be sad. He might as well be back in London.

Therefore, Darcy reluctantly replied that Yes, he would be happy to join them, and retreated to his room where he could dress for this Assembly Ball and wonder with regret what he'd done.

By the time they arrived at the Assembly, he knew exactly what he'd done.

_Good God, it's almost as bad as London._

* * *

><p><em>He was at the Assembly again.<em>

_"Come, Darcy," said Bingley, "I must have you dance. I hate to see you standing about by yourself in this stupid manner. You had much better dance."_

_"I certainly shall not," he heard himself reply in a condescending tone. "You know how I detest it…There is not another woman in the room…a punishment to me to stand up with…"_

_"…I never met with so many pleasant girls in my life!"_

_"You are dancing with the only handsome girl in the room." He discreetly glanced at Miss Jane Bennet, Bingley's obsession for the night._

_"..But there is one of her sisters sitting down behind you…"_

_Darcy turned in the direction of Bingley's nod._

_Miss Elizabeth Bennet. She was absolutely radiant, a sparkling ray of enchantment amidst the crowded ballroom, entranced by the fading candlelight. The light reflected in her dark eyes were like a fire burning into his soul, and if he could (Well, technically he could, seeing as it was __his __dream) he would carry her out of the blasted Assembly Hall and take her for a walk, a drive, a ride, a swim, whatever! so long as he could be with her away from the eyes of this idiotic town. But did he? Of course not. He was entitled to do his duty, just as he had always done._

_He would no longer think on it. _

_"She is tolerable…but not handsome enough to tempt me…" Saying it felt worse than swallowing fire. _

_Then suddenly all was in darkness. All except the figure of Miss Elizabeth, crying…drenching her beautiful eyes with humiliated tears._

He awoke.

Now he stared at the ceiling above him, contemplating all that had occurred at the Assembly a mere few hours ago. It was all a blur really, the disregarding, the silencing, all mixed together in his mind as one big, indistinct plan to keep everyone and everything away from him for as long as possible. One part of his intricate, highly strategic plan was to distract Bingley. He was one of those happy, peppy, social people who kindly assumed that the rest of the world's population wished to be happy and peppy and social with him, even when they didn't. Therefore it was an absolute necessity that he distract his friend as often and as much as possible. If he didn't succeed, he was forced to calmly and politely…get Bingley to leave him alone. Otherwise he would soon find himself the night's entertainment for a speculating circle of Hertfordshire savages. Step one was to answer in negatives, I shall not, There is not, She is not, I cannot, et cetera. Step two was to offer some final, firm farewell and be done with it forever.

That was truly all it had been in Darcy's mind. In normal circumstances it would be less than nothing and he would not be able to recall three of his own words. But these were not normal circumstances. His slights against Miss Elizabeth even now were rattling about in his guilty brain, haunting him. His entire conversation had been a lie. And he positively abhorred lying. There was "You are dancing with the only handsome girl in the room." Miss Jane Bennet was beautiful enough, but he had never cared for the prim, delicate, English rose type of woman. And his declaration that there was not another woman in the room whom it would not be a punishment to him to stand up with. In reality, there was one in particular who would be far more of a gift than a punishment. And then she was offered to him. She was in his reach, Bingley could introduce him! And then came the worst lie of all.

Tolerable. He had told some small, trifling, little white lies in his life time, but this was a capital sin. Had she heard him? Had it upset her? Not handsome enough to tempt him. Not handsome enough to tempt him? She had been tempting him all night! He could still remember every detail of her beautiful eyes. Large, dark, and inviting, glowing with something he could not name, with long eyelashes that fluttered against her pale cheeks when she closed her eyes. They were enough to make a man go mad…

Good God, he was going mad!

Even worse, he was beginning to sound like Bingley!

He would think of her no more. No more.

* * *

><p>"Mr. Darcy, you are looking quite well this morning!"<p>

_Am I? _Darcy longed to reply, _Because I feel like hell. _Seeing the look of shock on Miss Bingley's face at his use of the word hell would have been enough to lighten his spirits. He might have even felt like laughing rather than yawning. God, how he wished he could have fallen back asleep last night.

Slowly he returned his attention to the simpering smiles of Caroline Bingley. What on earth had he been thinking, leaving a hive of desperate single women in London for an audience with the queen bee? 'You are looking quite well this morning' indeed…

"Mr. Darcy?"

"Oh, uh-" He quickly seated himself at the breakfast table. "I am well, Caroline, thank you."

Naturally they were the only two at the table. She had undoubtably planned it all in advance, what she would wear, what they would eat, whether she wished the curtains to be opened or closed. He could see it all, her sitting on her little vanity chair at three this morning (just to ensure that she would not be late) dressed and decorated perfectly for a breakfast for two. Now she was fluttering her thin little eyelashes at him…It was enough to make him vomit, and he had not even eaten yet!

He rose from his chair as quickly as he had sat in it. "Actually, I-uh-believe I will go for a walk this morning."

"Oh…" Her attempted (but most definitely unsuccessful!) provocative smile instantly faded. "Oh…Well then…" It seemed, Darcy mused in triumph, that she had failed.

But then the simpering smile and eyelashes of doom returned. "Well then, allow me to accompany you!"

"Oh! No no no no no no no no. You mustn't do that. I-uhm-believe Bingley wished to discuss the…partridge…with you…" Damn blast it, did he just say partridge? To hell with what he said, now was the time for retreat. And he did retreat, right out of the breakfast room, out the front door, and away, without bothering to don a greatcoat or hat or gloves.

…Partridge?

He would certainly need to develop a Caroline Bingley strategy. And soon.

* * *

><p>How long had he been walking now? Two, three hours? It had to be at least eight by now.<p>

Perhaps he should thank Caroline and her eyelashes for scaring him off to the outdoors. The exercise had improved his mood greatly, and he was no longer fatigued. He did not even care that the air was growing cold and he was without a greatcoat. He felt wonderful. Who would have thought that Miss Bingley could ever cause him to feel wonderful?

Suddenly from the grove of trees came a burst of feminine laughter. Curiosity got the better of Darcy and he slowly crept toward the noise, conveniently hidden by the large branches of an oak tree.

"Kitty! Kitty, pick that one over there!"

"I don't like that one! You pick it!"

"No, you!"

The two young ladies arguing he vaguely recalled from the Assembly, but he could not place a name with their faces. By the look of them, they were very young and very silly.

"But I do not want to pick that one!" the girl apparently named Kitty whined. The loud burst of laughter Darcy had previously heard was heard once again, but he could not see from whom it came. Slowly he changed his hiding place and peered from behind another tree with a better view. The laughter had come from none other than Elizabeth…

-_Miss _Elizabeth.

Elizabeth-_Miss _Elizabeth-stood from her spot in the grass where Miss Jane had been placing flowers in her hair and took the hands of the silly girls whom Darcy now remembered as being her younger sisters. How were such charming ladies as Elizabeth-_Miss _Elizabeth-and Miss Jane in the same family-let alone the same county!-as these two?

"Come," Elizabeth-_Miss _Elizabeth-said to them as she bit her lip so as not to laugh, "why not pick it together? Put one hand on one leaf, one hand on the other and pray that it does not fall apart!" Now she allowed herself to drown in mirth at the angered looks on the faces of her sisters. "Lizzie, be serious!" they yelled. But Elizabeth-_Miss _Elizabeth-simply continued to laugh as she spun about on the field. "I," she giggled, "am never serious when out of doors. Serious people frown, and I could never frown with so much beauty about." She only broke into laughter at the rolling of her sisters' eyes.

She had a beautiful laugh, really. It was not sweet and simple, like a soft breeze, but loud and powerful like a clap of thunder. A soft breeze is practically imperceptible. You cannot tell from where it came or where it went. But a clap of thunder is unmistakeable. It will always, without question, strike something or other in the heart of its recipient. And that was precisely what Elizabeth's-_Miss _Elizabeth's-laugh was.

He was absolutely enchanted by her laughter. It was contagious! He was in such great danger of revealing himself that he covered his mouth with his fist to keep him from chuckling.

Then, all of a sudden, the sky darkened and there was a soft drizzle. Miss Kitty and Miss…Lydia, he believed her name was, were furious with Mother Nature for ruining their fun, and were set it seemed on staying out in the rain in order to reprimand her with wails of, "Ohhh, fiddlesticks!" and "This is simply not fair!" Darcy would have been forced to cover his ears had not Miss Jane taken them by her matronly hands and led them away. But Elizabeth-_Miss _Elizabeth-did not follow. Instead she rested her back against an oak tree.

The exact oak tree Darcy was hidden behind.

"Lizzie," Miss Jane called, "are you not coming? You'll be soaked!"

"Leave me here a while, Jane," she answered in a subdued voice. The closeness of her sent a lightning bolt through his senses. From this proximity he could smell the sweetness of her hair, hear her raspy breathing. She looked much like a goddess with the flowers entwined in her braided hair, and Darcy suddenly had a strong impulse to softly pull them out one by one by one…

"Lizzie, you are being ridiculous!" Miss Lydia yelled. "Whyever would you want to be out in this horrible weather?"

"…I quite like the rain," she answered. "It's quite like a miracle, isn't it? Water falling from the sky?"

All Darcy could do was smile.

He could have stayed there, watching her as she gazed dreamily at the sky, completely one with nature, forever.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter III

The Difference Between Daydreams and Reality

_The sun shone brightly on his face as he walked under a canopy of trees. _

_There was a hand on his arm. _

_Elizabeth's._

_She looked up into his eyes and smiled at him. They were doing nothing at all._

_And having a marvelous time doing it._

_They walked for miles and miles, talking and laughing. He asked her multiple questions about herself. What were her likes, her dislikes, her interests. Eventually, there was a mutual agreement (not so much in their words, but perhaps in their eyes, or perhaps in something more profound like their souls) that they no longer needed conversation. That being together was enough._

_Her pale skin and flowing white dress were a shimmering white light amidst the fallen leaves of autumn. She was quite a wonderful contrast to the Dark Shadow of London, he thought. _

_Then they were running, circling around tree trunks and ducking under their branches. He hadn't ran like this, simply for the fun of it, in years. Clearly it was far too long overdue. Suddenly he could laugh again, smile again the way he used to when he was young, without the heavy weight of responsibility constantly on his shoulders. He was light and free. And he could very well run on and on and on, as long as Elizabeth was alongside him. _

_As they stopped in their running to breathe, he bent his head so that Elizabeth's exhausted, yet invigorated, face met with his own. Each of their lips were formed into the brightest of smiles. And slowly those lips began to meet as he became physically, emotionally, spiritually, closer and closer to every beautiful part of her. _

_"Elizabeth…"_

_Their lips were about to touch…_

Dammit.

He was awake.

Hurriedly, Darcy rose from his bed to look at himself in the glass. Perhaps it was for the best that he had awoken. Something almost wild was glowing in the light blue rings of his eyes, and he did not like it. But there was absolutely nothing to fret about! he firmly told himself. There was nothing "wild" in his eyes. He was just…sleepy, that was all. All he was seeing was the effect falling asleep at one in the morning and reawakening at (Here he glanced at the clock.) three in the morning had on him. Yes, indeed. Nothing to fret about.

Yet that did not explain the dream itself. Darcy could not lie, even to himself, and say the dream had meant nothing or that he had felt nothing in having it. But an alliance with Elizabeth (He had long since given up the effort of calling her _Miss_ Elizabeth.) was simply impossible. She was of far too low a station to be met with compliance by those of his high station. After his little spying session behind the oak tree the previous morning, he had recalled this, and had made a strict resolve to think of her no longer. After all, where was the sense in pining for something he could never have? But clearly his subconscious had chosen to defy the decision, and instead chose to make its own decision to torture him with the pretty picture it had painted in his dreams tonight.

But there was absolutely NOTHING to fret about! Dreams were only…frilly nothings the mind makes up when it has nothing better to think of! And what did he really know about Elizabeth? He had barely spoken to her at the Assembly. He had never asked her what were her likes, her dislikes, her interests, as he had in his dream. But damn and blast, how he secretly wished he could remember her answers! That is just the way of dreams, Darcy's secretly pining heart mused, to have you forget the things you most want to remember. But of course, Darcy ignored these secret thoughts and remained focused on the task at hand. In truth, he knew nothing at all about her.

Perhaps that was the key! Engage her in conversation! Once he really talked to her, surely he would realize that she was no woman for him. He would be hospitably welcomed home by his former way of life, and she would be Miss Elizabeth once more. Although there was their mutual opinion of rain to recommend her…

Oh Lord, he was doing it again! Contradicting himself! He had never been prone to doing that before! What on earth was happening to him?

It was the dreams. The dreams, the rain, the…partridge! They were all against him, plotting to turn his entire way of life upside down! And he had had enough.

He would put his plan into action at his first opportunity. All he would need was a strategy.

* * *

><p>The carriage made its way down the rocky pathways of Hertfordshire.<p>

They were to attend a party at Lucas Lodge tonight. Darcy remembered the Lucases from the Assembly, _especially _Sir William Lucas, the silly old man who would happily leave his wife to marry St. James's, if it were possible to marry a building. If he could indeed do such a thing, he would most assuredly hire a minister on the spot and search high and low for a ring large enough to fit his beloved castle, so passionately did he love it. Darcy mentally filed the knight under a long list of the dreaded things to come tonight. On the positive side of the situation, the list of things he hoped were to come tonight, there was only one thing filed. Speaking to Elizabeth. (He only hoped to speak to her in order to rid her from his mind, of course….Indeed.) Sir William Lucas's eldest daughter, Miss Charlotte Lucas, and she were good friends (or at least that was what Darcy presumed by their closeness at the Assembly). Therefore, he deduced, Elizabeth would most definitely attend.

For days he had been plotting how their conversation would go, what he would say, how he would say it. But soon his imagination would take over, and he would find himself lost in a daydream rather than a plan. One completely contradictory to everything he had intended the talk to be.

He may as well go over it once more.

_"Eliza-" _Blast it. "_Miss__ Elizabeth." He bows._

_"Mr. Darcy." She curtsies._

_"It is certainly a lively party."_

_"Yes, it is."_

_"Would you care for some refreshment?"_

_"That would be delightful, thank you," she answers with a smile._

_Here he would gallantly signal a servant who would come and offer them what he carried on his tray. Sherry, most likely. Although champagne would be far more sophisticated… Well, why not make it interesting? Champagne. After gallantly signaling the servant, he gallantly offers her a glass of champagne at which point she dazzles him with a smile and thanks him. And then, all of a sudden, the servant trips over the corner of a rug spilling champagne all over her…red, green, pink, yellow, violet….blue (He loved blue)- All over her light blue dress. She is absolutely mortified. So what else is he to do but save her from her embarrassment by lifting her into his arms and carrying her outdoors and away from the party? He does so, causing a wave of desire to rush over him. When she rests her head on his shoulder his pulse begins to pound violently within him at the thought of how perfectly they fit together. _

_Once outside, he reluctantly lets her down and helps her back onto her feet. Her face is the deepest shade of red as she quietly thanks him for his service. He takes her hand and kisses it, saying that there is no cause for her to be embarrassed and that he would always be happy to assist her. Her hand is so soft, so delicate, that he cannot resist the temptation of kissing it, again… and again… and again, each time as slowly as he is able. _

_"Elizabeth…" He is about to kiss her neck, she is lifting her chin to allow him access, they are both lost in ecstasy, and then…_

Then the carriage hit a large bump in the road and slammed his head against the roof.

"AHH, DAMN BLAST IT ALL!"

Upon re-entering reality, Darcy was met with the wide eyes and confused faces of the rest of the Netherfield party. No doubt they were shocked. Darcy was never prone to yelling, especially not so loudly.

"I….uhm…" Darcy struggled to find some sensible words to say while simultaneously fighting the urge to blush in humiliation. "Forgive me, I… It hurt."

The gaping mouths soon closed and returned to their fixed polite smiles. Bingley assured Darcy that it was nothing, and he could not blame him, and he hoped he wouldn't find himself with a large bump on his head. But despite his friend's kindness, Darcy turned his face away, holding his hand to his injured head, positively ashamed of himself. Positively ashamed of his weakness. Firstly, because of his outburst. From youth he had been taught to behave as a gentleman in all companies, yet here he was, screaming like a banshee and cursing in front of the family of his best friend. Secondly, he was ashamed of the fantasy he had just allowed himself to fall into. It had been as if he was under a spell, completely unable to think like a rational human being. He had even picked the color of her dress, for God's sake! And Good God, had he carried her out of the party?

He was losing it. No no, he wasn't _losing _it. He had already lost it.

He was slowly and surely allowing himself to turn into a fool. But no more. All he had to do was follow the plan. It would be his new motto. Follow the plan follow the plan follow the plan follow the plan follow the plan follow the plan.

And so he repeated it all the way to Lucas Lodge, in the carriage, stepping out of the carriage, stepping into the house, it was follow the plan follow the plan follow the plan follow the plan. Until he saw Elizabeth. Then it was,

I hope they have champagne.

* * *

><p>It took what seemed like an eternity for her to be free of company.<p>

It was quite obvious that the five Bennet girls, though the younger ones were undeniably silly, were quite popular amongst the people of Hertfordshire. Elizabeth had been constantly surrounded by a group of friends for quite some time, while Darcy, not wishing to call any attention to himself, stood in a distant corner watching her, waiting for the opportune moment to approach her. Now, at last, the time had come. The crowd of people that formerly encircled her had finally dispersed, and he was ready to greet her.

Well, almost ready anyway.

With determined strides Darcy left his corner and casually approached her. Upon her recognizing him, she met his gaze, and he (trying with all his might to act as calm and natural as possible) gave a quick bow.

"Eli-" Damn! "Miss Elizabeth."

He could not tell by the look on her face whether she was amused or annoyed as she met his bow with a curtsy. "Mr. Darcy."

"I, uh-" He was beginning to lose his train of thought, and dammit his palms were sweating! "It is certainly a lively party." Excellent. Follow the plan follow the plan follow the plan. But was that scorn shining in her beautiful eyes?

"Yes," she answered, "for some of us I suppose it is."

…What?

"Are you not enjoying yourself, Miss Bennet?"

"Well yes, _I _am. But I did not think it proper to suppose that _you_ were enjoying yourself, Mr. Darcy. After all, what reason can there be for you, a man of high society, to enjoy an affair so small and unimportant as this?" She had smiled amiably throughout every word. And yet there was something in the tone of her voice, and in the way she looked at him with one brow raised, that was one part sinister…one part strangely arousing…

Was she teasing him? He had never been teased in this way before.

He couldn't decide whether he liked it or not…

And he couldn't decide whether_ she_ liked _him_ or not. It was as if she was both content and angry, and one emotion was simply a mask attempting to hide the other. But for the life of him he could not decipher which was the mask and which wasn't.

Unfortunately, he had no time to decide or decipher anything before Elizabeth quickly bobbed a curtsy. "If you will excuse me, Mr. Darcy," she said with a smile he also could not decipher, "I must rejoin my sister." He hadn't even time to say that of course he understood, for she was already gone.

Well…

That had not gone precisely as he had hoped.

But that was the difference between daydreams and reality.

* * *

><p>It would have been very considerate of the Lucases to mention that this was a never ending party.<p>

He had probably been sitting in the same chair barely drinking the same glass of sherry for an hour!

Well, that was what it felt like anyway.

And try as he might, he still could not get Elizabeth's singing out of his mind. It had been a magnificent performance. One he was convinced he would never forget for as long as he lived. True, her pianoforte playing needed some work, but that could not effect the joy and love that rang through her lovely soprano voice. Where as Miss Mary Bennet's performance after her, though flawless, was solemn and emotionless, Elizabeth's was full of vigor and life. And the way she smiled earnestly at her listeners was clear evidence that her only wish was to make them happy with her song.

Slowly he rose from his seat in order to stretch his muscles and began to walk about the room. She was so different from the high society snobs he had gradually grown accustomed to. Everything the snobs did was done for their own benefit, all they wanted was credibility, and all they lived for was their pride. Elizabeth was…sweet, kind, generous, the exact opposite of everything the _ton _loved and Darcy despised. Although he hadn't had the chance to learn more of her through conversation, he had been able to acquaint himself with her simply through observation. His results? She had proved herself to be everything that was kind and lovely.

Lost as Darcy was in his thoughts on Elizabeth, he did not realize when he stopped in his walk that he was extremely close to their object. He may have noticed her presence far sooner than he did, had not his neighbor Sir William Lucas unexpectedly demanded his attention.

"What a charming amusement for young people this is Mr. Darcy," Sir William declared in an overly boisterous voice, gesturing toward the group of young people dancing. "There is nothing like dancing after all. I consider it one of the first refinements of polished societies." Darcy immediately set his "Keep Everyone Away Strategy" into action by answering Sir William with some insignificant set down. He had absolutely no idea what he had said, but Sir William seemed to take no offense and went on to say he doubted not that he was adept in the science himself. And on and on and on they went with this pointless drabble of a conversation. Did he often dance at his beloved St. James's, Did he not think it would be a proper compliment to the place? No matter how insulting the response, the old fool could not be silenced!

"You have a house in town I conclude?" asked the knight in hopes of leading Darcy into a new avenue of conversation. This time, he chose to answer his wretched inquiries with a bow. Perhaps if he did not talk, the old fool would not talk. But there was no such luck. The man considered his bow sufficient encouragement and continued on, saying something or other that Darcy ignored, for he really did not want to know or care to know what Sir Lucas spoke of. Until…

"My dear Miss Eliza," (Darcy was immediately attentive.) "why are not you dancing? Mr. Darcy, you must allow me to present this young lady to you as a very desirable partner. You cannot refuse to dance, I am sure, when so much beauty is before you."

So much beauty. The rosy blush that suffused her cheeks threatened to resurface all his provocative daydreams in a single moment. Already there was a fantasy in progress of the two of them gliding across the floor with eyes only for the other, feeling as if they were the only ones in the room. Though it completely defied the plan, Darcy could not keep the little voice inside of him from yelling over and over, "God bless Sir William Lucas!"

Here Sir William took Elizabeth's hand to give it to Darcy, who would have been most blissfully happy to receive it, had not the lady suddenly pulled it away with a cry of, "Indeed, sir, I have not the least intention of dancing. I entreat you not to suppose that I moved this way in order to beg for a partner."

She did not wish to dance with him? In all the times he had asked a woman to dance, though that was a fairly small number, none had ever refused him. Until now. And strangely, he quite liked that. But he still wished to dance with her.

"Miss Bennet," said he in a quiet ardor as he offered her his hand, "would you do me the honor?"

It seemed at first that she knew not how to answer his earnest request. But she was determined, and firmly pressed her lips together before saying, "I thank you, sir, but I could not possibly." Not even Sir William's attempts at persuasion could move her. The old knight declared that Darcy could have no objection, he was sure, to oblige them for one half-hour, at which she flashed said gentleman a saucy smile and replied, "Mr. Darcy is all politeness."

Something told him she was being sarcastic.

Eventually, she could take no more and, only after archly raising her left brow at Darcy, walked away. Despite his disappointed feelings, he could not help but be satisfied at he watched her walk away from him, graceful and feisty all at the same time. She was unlike every other woman in the world. And that soon became one of the many things he loved about her.

"I can guess the subject of your reverie."

Sir William Lucas's pestering presence had been replaced by Caroline's.

_Lovely._

But he would not allow Miss Bingley to spoil his joy, and replied in a disinterested voice, "I should imagine not."

"You are considering how insupportable it would be to pass many evenings in such a manner-in such society…" _Blah blah blah blah. Noise noise noise noise. _

"Your conjecture," he replied, "is totally wrong, I assure you." Or at least he assumed it was wrong, for he hadn't exactly paid attention…

He followed Elizabeth's every move with his clear eyes as he continued on. "My mind was more agreeable engaged.

I have been meditating on the very great pleasure which a pair of fine eyes in the face of a pretty woman can bestow." When Miss Bingley enquired what lady had the credit of inspiring such reflections (no doubt thinking it was herself), Darcy slowly curved his lips into the smallest of smiles as he answered with wholehearted pride,

"Miss Elizabeth Bennet."


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter IV

Trouble and Chaos

The party assembled in the breakfast room of Netherfield Hall was completely silent.

All that was to be heard at the large table was the clinking of silverware and the occasional huff or puff (or both huff _and_ puff) from the direction of Mr. Hurst. There was no call for the impending silence. In truth, there was simply nothing to be said. Normally this put Caroline at no disadvantage. She could start a debate on types of fruit, if only for the sake of speaking - or, rather, forcing everyone to hear her speak. But she had been uncharacteristically quiet this morning.

What a delightful change.

Unfortunately, this delightful change was to be put to an end, as Miss Bingley set her cup of chocolate onto the table and 'ahem'ed in preparation for her long anticipated monologue. What would be today's marvelous subject? The abominable society of the country? The horrid lack of style in native Hertfordshire ladies? The horrid lack of chivalry in native Hertfordshire gentlemen? The disgraceful Bennet family? The latter of these topics of conversation was the most frequent, its being the best opportunity to disparage Elizabeth Bennet. Darcy sincerely hoped Caroline would not choose to speak of Elizabeth in such a manner yet again this morning. It was so vexing to hear her speak of Elizabeth's "complete and utter lack of sophistication and breeding," or her "unattractive and unappealing personality" over and over again. He swore to God, if he heard, "Miss Elizabeth is so very _unpolished_," one more time, he would throw Caroline out of the window.

"Charles, about Miss Jane Bennet-" Well, at least it was a different Bennet he would hear disparaged. Though it pained him to admit it, some of Caroline's slight reproofs of Miss Jane were not…entirely…untrue. Agreeing with her felt like blasphemy.

"Now, Caroline," Bingley replied, "I will hear no more of your objections about Miss Bennet or any of her family."

"Charles, I was only suggesting that I invite Miss Bennet to dinner tonight in order to become better acquainted with her." This was beyond everything. Caroline _willingly _wishing to become better acquainted with any Bennet, even the well-mannered Jane Bennet, was unbelievable. Darcy nearly asked if she had a fever.

Bingley knew not how to respond for some time. "That… That is thoughtful of you, Caroline."

"Yes, I thought as much." To her it was as casual a decision as deciding to breathe. But everyone else was in a stunned silence at this unexpected act of kindness.

Bingley suddenly broke the silence with a startled gasp of realization. "But I am dining with the officers tonight!"

Ah, now everything was clear! This was no act of kindness (Darcy felt quite foolish for having believed it possible, even for a moment). No, this was trouble. This could only come to trouble. Miss Bennet would be at the liberty of her hostess tonight, without Bingley's interference; it was the perfect opportunity to pour some mean elixir of cruel words into the girl or to get some 'most interesting information' out. Caroline clearly had Lord knows how many tricks up the sleeve of her disgustingly décolletage morning dress.

"Why, bless my soul!" Caroline exclaimed with mock disappointment. "Was that tonight? Well then, we must simply get along with you, Charles. Mr. Darcy and Mr. Hurst will accompany you, I presume?" Darcy's confirmation and Hurst's affirmative grunt were met with a devious smile and a whispered, "Excellent."

It could only mean one thing when Caroline smiled like that.

Darcy would make sure to say a prayer for Miss Jane before they left that night.

* * *

><p>"Bingley?"<p>

The door was opened by Bingley's valet, Cremms. Cremms was an odd, eccentric little man of some very advanced years. He walked very slowly and with great focus, as if he expected to plummet to the ground at any moment. If, Darcy thought shamefully, Cremms did happen to take a dreaded fall, he would not be precisely thrilled by the concept of helping him up. The man gave him the jitters - a truth Darcy would admit only to himself - and touching him seemed unclean somehow. The cause of this effect could be easily guessed at; the eerie walk, or the ghostly white skin shriveled up like a dried fig, perhaps? But the most likely cause was the way the old man looked at him with his cold little beady eyes, as if he knew exactly what Darcy was about.

On the other hand, Bingley very much admired his valet. "Cremms," he would often say, "is a dear, fine old fellow." Darcy could easily see the man as old, but definitely not as dear or fine. Perhaps, he thought with a shrug as the old valet silently led him to Bingley's dressing room, there was more to Cremms than met the eye.

"Dammit… Dammit… Dammit…"

"Difficulties, Bingley?"

"Only," Bingley replied without raising his eyes from his neckcloth, "that I could not tie a cravat to save my own life." He carelessly tossed it aside and asked Cremms to bring him a fresh one. "It really doesn't matter anyway, seeing as I'm in absolutely no hurry to leave."

Darcy watch Cremms make his way to his master's neckcloths at a tortoise's pace. "You have certainly picked the right man for the job, then."

Ignoring this comment, Bingley began rummaging through his various drawers and boxes looking for something or other and yelling over his shoulder, "Can you believe Caroline would do this?… Don't answer that. But Darcy, this is quite low, even for her. To deliberately plan a dinner with Jane- …_Miss Bennet_-" Ah, so he and Bingley had the same problem. "To deliberately plan a dinner with Miss Bennet on a night she knew I would be out! You know, Darcy, in my days as young, reckless rascal-" (Darcy almost remarked that he still was a young, reckless rascal, but he was not sure Bingley was in the mood for teasing.) "In those days, I would often call Caroline a little demon, just to vex her. Now I am beginning to wonder if I was right." Here Darcy was about to laugh in agreement before Bingley continued in a dreamy state of voice, "Only a demon would keep me from being with an angel."

Darcy's expression instantly turned from amused to concerned. Bingley was the type of man to fall in love easily. But he was also the type of man to have his heart broken. "Hurry downstairs, Bingley."

"Right'o, Darcy."

* * *

><p>Dining with the officers was less than enchanting.<p>

A group of drunken men, yelling and laughing was not the entertainment Darcy usually sought. There was good conversation (among the sober, at least) about the government, or the war, but he had been in no mood for talking tonight. Therefore, all he had gotten out of the evening was a wine stain on his cravat and Mr. Hurst's captivating debate on the best type of port.

Darcy entered the halls of Netherfield with the outwardly stony countenance which had so easily become his persona, masking the slight joy in his heart the persisting rainstorm had brought him. Bingley and Hurst then followed his lead, grumbling and pouting over the "blasted weather", and the sopping wet threesome stood in the center of a sopping wet floor waiting to shed their sopping wet coats. However the whole of the household was in a state of chaos. So much so that Bingley's calls to the servants running up and down the stairs and across the halls of, "Can someone-? What the-? What is-? Will someone-?" went completely unnoticed. Caroline and Louisa unhurriedly descended the staircase (a great contrast to the rest of the house run amuck) and approached them.

"Finally Charles!" exclaimed Caroline. ("Finally!" Louisa reiterated.) "You're little angel fell quite ill at dinner," ("Fell quite ill at dinner.") "and she is at this moment upstairs with a high fever." ("A very high fever.") Here Bingley attempted to respond, but Caroline, along with Louisa the Parrot, overcame him. "The servants are doing everything they can for her," ("Yes, everything they can.") "so you may as well leave her be and get a good night's rest." ("A good night's rest.")

All this parroting proved a bit confusing for Bingley, but eventually he recovered himself, declaring, "I will do no such thing!" and then proceeding to run frantically about like a madman inquiring, "How does Miss Bennet? Has she everything she could require? Is there a warm fire in her room? Could someone call for a doctor?"

By this point the floor was positively drenched, and Caroline and Louisa were chasing him about, begging him to stop. "Charles, you are soaking the floor!" ("Positively soaking the floor!")

It was absolute chaos.

Seeing as Hurst only bothered to watch the impending madness in silence, and make the depressing observation that he could not see the tip of his shoes over his stomach, Darcy would have to be the one to stop the madness. "Bingley! Bingley! Caroline, Louisa, you cannot- Bingley! Caroline!"

…

"EVERYONE, STOP!"

They instantly fell to attention.

"Caroline, Louisa, attend to Miss Bennet. Bingley, calm down and find someone to take these blasted coats." After recovering from their shock, the three siblings did as was commanded, and Mr. Hurst left to enjoy his rotund belly elsewhere.

Darcy was quite accustomed to the reaction he had on people. He was used to the frightening effect his deep baritone voice, grim features, and astonishing height had on others. Sometimes it was an advantage. The dreadful Darcy stare had often saved him in a number of uncomfortable circumstances. But he had never liked being such a horrifying prospect. It made him feel like some type of nightmarish creature plaguing the dreams of children. When had anyone unknown to him greeted him with a smile, a real, genuine smile? But this was no time for self-pity. After handing his wet coat to a passing servant, Darcy ascended the stairs and sought out the sick room of Miss Bennet. He was not overly familiar with the house, beyond the library and study, and would not have been able to find the guest room, without the frantic Bingley cries to follow.

"Are you quite certain she is well?" he heard his friend ask.

Then Caroline chimed in. "Yes, Charles, she is quite well." ("Quite well," returned Louisa.)

Darcy cautiously approached the slightly ajar guest room door. From his vantage point, he could easily see a distraught Bingley and a remarkably less distraught Caroline and Louisa hovering around the bed where a pale Miss Bennet laid.

"According to Mrs. Taggert," said Caroline as she rested an indifferent hand on the girl's forehead, "she has a high fever, but it should pass by and by."

This did nothing but increase Bingley's anxiety. "But a high fever, a deadly symptom, Caroline!" Surely he would go into the fidgets if this went on!

Darcy was about to join them and attempt to calm his friends nerves, when the pale figure under the covers began rustling about murmuring, "Lizzie…I need Lizzie…"

Elizabeth.

Darcy simply retreated to his room, where he could muse and fantasize in peace.

Elizabeth. What type of sister was she? This was a new question to add to the never-ending list of questions surrounding the mystery of Elizabeth Bennet. No doubt, she was a caring sibling, loving and compassionate, but responsible and fair in judgement. She must also be a very playful sister, he decided, remembering her teasing, witty nature. She would most certainly be a wonderful companion and friend. Precisely the thing he needed.

And could not have.

* * *

><p>The following morning, Miss Bennet was rumored to be but little better, but her health description had been altered from "quite ill" to simply "feverish" by the Bingley sisters. The young lady had had a difficult night, but this morning she was at least well enough to pen a brief, sloppy note to her dear sister, asking for her presence and assistance.<p>

The note being dispatched, Darcy sat in the Netherfield breakfast parlor, nervously anticipating Elizabeth's arrival. Surely it would not be for some hours, but still he found himself anxiously picking at his food, twiddling his fingers, and counting the minutes as they went by.

Caroline was just about to launch into yet another long lecture on the "complete lack of sense in the minds of the Bennets of Longbourn," and Darcy was just about to pretend to listen, when a servant suddenly entered and announced Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Elizabeth! Darcy hurriedly stood from his seat, along with Bingley and a most displeased at being forced to stand Hurst. Slowly, Elizabeth entered the breakfast room, with her chin confidently raised and a slight rim of laughter lining the center of her fine eyes. Her stockings were filthy, her petticoat a mess, most of her hair had fallen out of its simple coiffure, and her cheeks were the deep, bright red often brought on by the warmth of exercise.

She had never looked lovelier.

Clearly she had walked from Longbourn, judging by her appearance. And although he could not justify her risking her safety by walking so many miles alone, it did show an affection for her sister most heart-warming. Now more than ever he pictured her as a warm, loving companion, and longed for both her sweet and her savory touch in his dismal life. He would have liked very much to take the walk with her. To watch as her cheeks and eyes gradually began to brighten and glow. To discover the origin of every speck of mud and dirt upon her. To let loose the few sections of her hair that were still pinned, so that he could see it all hanging about her in a rich waterfall of darkness. What would it be like, to hold her in his arms? What would it be like to feel the fabric of that filthy, fetching blue gown she wore in his own hands? Would her dark, beguiling eyes ever be raised to his with something like love and affection? He could imagine it. Easily.

_He would rush to her side, inquiring if she had been hurt. She would assure him that she was quite well, and that it was all for the sake of her sister. He would smile, and tell her how well he thought of her, what a wonderful sister she was, and ask if he could give her anything for her comfort. Then she would smile, and reply with that wry, teasing smile of hers,_

_"Just you."_

_Then they would laugh, _(How desperately he longed to laugh with her!), _their laughs combining and forming one perfect sound of bliss, mirth, and ultimate happiness. He would pick her up then, and spin her about the room, causing the rest of the world to blur and fade into oblivion, leaving nothing but the two of them. They would fit together perfectly. And they would be happy and merry and…._

Completely insane! Darcy was now convinced that something was wrong in him somewhere. Had someone been slipping laudanum into his drinks?

"May I," the real Elizabeth inquired, "see my sister? I am dreadfully worried for her."

His own voice seemed miles away as he replied, "Of course you are." Shocked at being addressed by him, she turned to meet his constant gaze. He fancied that, for a mere moment, their two gazes locked, an unexplainable connection occurring. A connection he would look back on, nearly every day from then on.

"I will take you to your sister, Miss Bennet," Caroline declared with faux graciousness.

For reasons unbeknownst to him, he did not want her to go. A most unnerving realization.

Would this mixture of trouble and chaos ever come to an end?


	5. Chapter 5

**So sorry for the delay everyone! But hopefully, it made you even more anxious to read the next chapter! Enjoy!**

* * *

><p>Chapter V<p>

Strength's Weakening

One morning Darcy received a letter from his dear little sister Georgiana.

_Dearest William, _

_I sincerely hope that you are having a wonderful time at Mr. Bingley's new estate, dear brother. For I am having a marvelous time here at Pemberley with Mrs. Annesley, who has always been, and continues to be, the best and most wonderful of companions. My studies have become even more extensive and interesting! I have gone deeper and deeper into the history of places all over the globe; so much so, in fact, that it feels as if I travel through time whenever I pick up a history book! _

_My study of literature is now all the more fascinating, as I find that I am quite intrigued with Greek mythology. The stories of the Greeks are so unique, so exciting, and so effective at touching one's heart. I particularly like the story of Diana the Huntress. She is quite brave, and such a model for women! I enjoy netting a purse or painting a screen as much as the next lady wishing to become 'accomplished,' but I would personally prefer turning a man into a deer to painting a table._

_ Enough of myself, for I would so like to hear what you have been up to. What is happening at Netherfield? Have you done a great deal of hunting? Of riding? Is the Hertfordshire countryside nearly as beautiful as our dearest Derbyshire? Is the company pleasant? Are there very many pretty ladies in the neighborhood? I expect all of these questions (and perhaps more, if you will so oblige me) to be answered in your reply. In the meantime, I shall picture you riding your great steed Hyperion as fast as the wind can take you, through the hillsides of Hertfordshire, and wait patiently for your return. _

_ Please do give my best regards to Mr. Bingley, and Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst as well. I hope they are very well and happy. I hope especially, brother, that you are well and happy. _

_All my love, Georgie_

Darcy sincerely enjoyed receiving letters from his sister. This sweet letter in particular was acting as a relaxing balm to his sensibilities, which had been very thoroughly antagonized by the visit of Mrs. Bennet and her two silly daughters an hour before.

"You seem to take much pleasure in your letter, Mr. Darcy," Caroline said as she took a dainty sip of her chocolate. "You must have read it ten times in the past hour."

Darcy shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "It is a letter from my sister," he offered as a a reply.

"Oh, Georgiana! Oh! Oh! Oh, she is simply a delight!" Caroline used the exclamation "Oh!" so often in reference to Georgiana, one would think it was apart of her name. "Oh, how is the dear girl? Oh, I have not seen her in ages!"

He would be very happy never hearing "Oh!" again for as long as he lived. Not being in a mood for aggravating conversation, Darcy curtly replied, "She is well."

Even if he had been in a mood for aggravating conversation (which he never was), Darcy would not have been able to conjure one sensible word to say with the way Elizabeth was looking at him. Having taken a short break from tending to her sister, she had joined them in the sitting room, with the express means, it seemed, of scaring him out of his wits with her penetrating gaze. It was rather unnerving really. She looked at him from under her curled eyelashes, neither with admiration or abomination, but with a puzzled expression, as if she knew not what to make of him. No one had ever looked at him quite that way before… Generally, they knew precisely what they thought of him, and either left him alone because of it or chose to court attendance. But she had looked at him this way before. It was a look somewhat similar to the one she had given him last night, during their rather energetic debate on ladies' accomplishments. _"I am no longer surprised at your knowing only __**six **__accomplished women. I rather wonder now at your knowing __**any**__," _those had been her clever words. Ever since that heated discussion, Darcy had decided he quite liked to be teased.

And he would much rather be teased than be under the gaze of Caroline's coquettish eyes. _"_Mr. Darcy - " Here came the eyes. "Mr. Darcy, you simply must promise to include in your reply to Oh! sweet Georgiana's letter that I send her my very best wishes and that I long to see her."

Darcy lowered his eyes as if to keep Medusa's head from turning him to stone. "It will be done."

Quickly he returned his attention to Oh! Georgiana's letter. "_I would personally prefer turning a man into a deer to painting a table…" _He believed Elizabeth would have the same preference. Slowly he raised his eyes to glance above his sister's rose scented stationary and observed her, apparently bored with trying to piece him together, with her curved figure turned toward the window, gazing out at the countryside as if she were mesmerized. If he could (but he most definitely could not) join her, he would. If the entire world in which he moved and lived were not governed by propriety and decorum, he would sit beside her and look out of the window as well, if only to be close to her.

Suddenly Elizabeth rose from her graceful position on the settee. "If you will excuse me, I believe I shall take advantage of the fine day and go for a walk." Quickly, Darcy mentally penned another addition to the list of things he knew about Elizabeth. _Likes to walk. _No. _Loves to walk. _He quite enjoyed when she walked as well.

As soon as the sitting room door had closed upon Elizabeth, Caroline went into a rapturous speech disparaging every detail about her (loyally followed by Louisa's parroting), and when that delicious gossip lost its flavor, went into an even more rapturous speech about Oh! Georgiana.

Hmm. A walk.

_Two minutes later, in Darcy's quarters…_

"Kendall, find me a walking outfit."

* * *

><p>He was not stalking.<p>

He was _not _stalking.

…

Very well, he was stalking.

There was a secluded corner in Netherfield's garden shrouded by overgrown grass and foliage in which Darcy sat on a long forgotten stone bench, hidden from view, but perfectly capable of watching Elizabeth as she walked casually, gracefully about the garden like a woodland nymph.

He wasn't stalking! He was merely…watching her from afar.

Whatever he was doing, insane as it was, relieved his suppressed emotions greatly. Here, in this secluded little glen he could look at Elizabeth, and admire everything about her, away from the eyes of Bingley, his sisters, and even Elizabeth herself. No one would know if his eyes darkened or warmed, as he was sure they did, whenever they came to rest on her. And perhaps, for a short time at least, he could ignore the thoughts constantly spiraling about in his brain of the inferiority of her connections, of how any attachment between them was impossible. The pain in his breast was assuaged, for now.

However, while the pain in his breast was assuaged, his arousal surely was not. Watching her stroll amongst the wild, untamed gardens of Netherfield, sniffing the roses and brushing her smiling lips lightly against their petals, could not but make him wonder what it would be like to see those lips, so lovely to the eye, and, most assuredly, pleasing to the taste, smiling upon him with something like affection or love. Technically, he was _alone with Elizabeth. _Technically, if he had his way, he could make love to her right on this bench. The thought of it - let alone the picture in his mind! - was enough to cause every fiber of his being to burn with expectation and desire. It was all quite tiring really, he thought with a moan as he laid his head against the bench's back and closed his eyes. The anxiety, then the arousal, then the anxiety again, was nothing short of exhausting.

So exhausting in fact that he fell asleep, dreaming of the garden and the beautiful maiden roaming through it.

_He was on the same forgotten stone bench, and in the same garden, or rather a more fantastical version of it. In the whimsical world of his subconscious mind, the unkempt, scraggly garden had been transformed to another Garden of Eden, as if the Lord above had given the human race a second chance to live harmonious and innocent with him. And appearing in the midst of the tranquil scene, so beautiful and angelic in appearance she looked to have belonged there, among God's perfection, was Elizabeth. He would have come to her, but so ravishing was she that he was frozen to his spot, as incapable of moving a single muscle as he was of flying up to the heavens. Luckily, no movement was necessary, for Elizabeth came to him herself. "Fitzwilliam!" _

_She hurried to his side, and threw her arms around his neck. "Fitzwilliam!" She then kissed his cheek, leaving a fiery sensation in the place where her lips had been. "Oh, Fitzwilliam!" (Her Oh!'s were far nicer than Miss Bingley's.) "I am so sorry to have kept you waiting. I was collecting some flowers." A smile. A real, genuine smile! It was all he could have asked for._

_"Hmm, you were now?" he replied with a smirk. "What kinds of flowers did you retrieve, dearest? And are any of them for me?"_

_Elizabeth laughed and slapped him with her fragrant bunch of flora. "There is no need to be selfish, my good sir! Only one is for you. I have here roses, lilacs, dandelions, daisies, bluebells, __**and**__," here she pulled another smaller bouquet out from behind her back and presented it to him, "sweet fitzwilliams, for my sweet Fitzwilliam." Hearing her say his Christian name, and hearing the easy, breathless way in which it rolled off her tongue, made him happy in ways beyond comprehension, and he gratefully attempted to show his appreciation as he moved to kiss her neck. "Although," she stopped him with a teasing smile and a raising of her brow, "in truth, you are not so sweet."_

_"Ha! You're lying."_

_"No," she replied as she laid an entrancingly soft hand on his neck, "I am not."_

_Here he raised his own brow. "I am not sweet?"_

_"No," she said with a firm shake of her head._

_"Hmm._

_Well I'll show you sweet." Quickly he captured her by the waist and countered her teasing with some of his own. His lips grazed down her jawbone and across her cheek, coming to rest at her ear. "Say I am sweet," he commanded in something half a raspy whisper, half a growl. She nodded her head. "Yes, I am sweet," he nibbled her ear lobe, "but not nearly so sweet as you." With a last parting kiss at the back of her neck, he retreated, only to have Elizabeth reach for him so he could continue his attentions. "No, no, no. Wait," he enjoined, pulling away. "I have something for you." _

_He presented her, the woman who in ways both small and large made his life so blissfully happy, some flowers of his own. "They are forget-me-nots." He placed them in her hands._

_"Forget me not, Elizabeth."_

Why did the dream have to come to an end?

He would have liked for it to go on forever, as his new reality. But he knew very well it was not to be, and with a groan prepared himself for the opening of his eyes and his return to the real world.

And yet Elizabeth was still in front of him…

_I must still be sleeping._

Soon enough, Darcy realized he was not sleeping, and that the real, flesh and blood Elizabeth was sitting right beside him.

Hurriedly he ran a hand across mangy hair and murmured an awkward apology. Damn! Did she know? Good God, he hadn't been talking in his sleep, had he?

Elizabeth seemed not disturbed, as she surely would have been if he had mumbled his name in her sleep, but rather amused. "No apologies are necessary, Mr. Darcy. I assure you, sir," she lifted that damned intoxicating left brow of hers, "you may sleep wherever you please. Though not wishing to wake you, the view of the garden from this angle is so lovely - and almost…_clandestine_ - I could not but take advantage of the opportunity by sitting here. It is I who should be forgiven for disturbing your rest."

"No, no," he muttered, "I…ah…" Blast it, why could he not utter a single sensible word? "Nothing to forgive, Miss Bennet."

They passed many moments in silence, Darcy staring at the ground and Elizabeth trying her best not to laugh, till the lady remarked, "Is not this garden enchanting, Mr. Darcy? It is not exactly the Home Park at Windsor, or, I am sure, Pemberley's gardens, but it is quite nice for being so unmanaged."

"Breathtaking."

Luckily, she hadn't noticed he was referring to her.

"Well," she said after a few more moments spent in silence, "if you will excuse me, sir, I must return to my poor ailing sister," and with a quick curtsy, hurried away. Darcy could only sigh and watch her go.

_Forget me not, Elizabeth._

* * *

><p>That night in the drawing room, Miss Bingley occupied her time by hovering incessantly around Darcy as he tried, in vain, to write a reply to Georgie's letter.<p>

_"_You write uncommonly fast," she purred.

_You are uncommonly slow at taking a hint. _"You are mistaken. I write rather slowly."

"How many letters you must have occasion to write in the course of a year!" _If only I could finish this one. _"Letters of business, too! How odious I should think them!" _How odious I should think you!_

"It is fortunate, then," he murmured with impatience, "that they fall to _my _lot instead of _yours_."

"Pray tell your sister that I long to see her."

He fought the temptation to sigh. "I have already told her so once, by your desire." For a few moments, there was a heavenly silence….

Until, "I am afraid you do not like your pen. Let me mend it for you. I mend pens remarkably well."

_Oh, God. _If only he could swat her away, like a fly. "Thank you - but I always mend my own." There. Hopefully that would silence her. She had been revolving around him for Lord knew how long, like a vulture making lazy circles in the sky, and never ceasing with her provoking comments. Try as he might to write his letter to Georgie, the distractions were too much for him. Caroline had been babbling on about the length of his letter, his fine handwriting, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. Once he had even written, _"I am most happy to hear, Georgie, that your lines are so even." _This was upsetting enough, without Elizabeth's trying desperately not to laugh. Every time she bit her lip in an attempt to hold in her giggles, he could not help but think she was laughing at his expense. It was upsetting, it was mortifying, it was unacceptable.

But it would not, he thought as he musingly dipped his pen in the inkwell, be so upsetting, mortifying, or disagreeable if the two of them swapped. In fact it would be quite pleasant, to watch Elizabeth and her fine figure, circling around him, like a fierce lioness. And he would be the prey.

_She would say, "You write uncommonly fast," as well, but in that toying, teasing tone of hers that made his blood positively boil. "How many letters you must have occasion to write in the course of a year," here she would turn, the skirts of that damned fetching green dress that made her look like sea foam brushing against his leg. "Letters of…business, too. How __**odious**_," _and she would lift that left brow of hers, "I should think them." And if Miss Bingley was the one sitting there, snickering, he wouldn't care less. _

_It was such a pleasing picture. And a tempting one. So tempting, in fact, he knew he would not be able to contain himself. He would jump from his seat, wrap his arms about her waist, and - _

"Tell your sister I am delighted to hear of her improvement on the harp."

_Dammit, Caroline! _

_"_And pray," she continued, "let her know I am quite in raptures with her beautiful little design for a table, and I think it infinitely superior to Miss Grantley's."

Firstly, Georgiana did not play the harp. Secondly, who the bloody hell was Miss Grantley? Rather than mention these things, Darcy made another attempt to put an end to her exasperating drivel once and for all. "Will you give me leave to defer your raptures till I write again? At present I have not room to do them justice."

"Oh!" There was that Oh! again. "It is of no consequence. I shall see her in January. But do you always write such charming long letters to her, Mr. Darcy?"

Darcy - _again_ - gave Miss Bingley one of his stupefying set downs, only to - _again_ - fail.

There then took place an argument between Bingley and himself (the contents of which are not necessary to this narrative, seeing as it was only a minor quarrel and that neither friend took any offense from its contents). Elizabeth joined in the argument as well, which made it far more pleasant, until it was only she and Darcy engaged in verbal swordplay, fencing with witty words. "To yield readily - easily - to the _persuasion _of a friend is no merit with you," she had said. "To yield without conviction is no compliment to the understanding of either," he had replied, parrying her clever thrust. He had never done anything like this before. And, damn, how he loved it!

Unfortunately, it soon came to end, when Elizabeth stated that Darcy had much better finish his letter. He took her advice, or rather _pretended _to take her advice by scrolling something or other on the paper, folding it, and putting it in his pocket to finish later. But at that point the deep, penetrating silence in the room was too much for his agitated mind to handle. So Darcy tapped his quill on the edge of the writing desk, seeking a clever way to both keep Caroline silent and be rid of the awkward quiet. "Miss Bingley, Miss Elizabeth, would you perhaps be willing to entertain us with the indulgence of some music?" Naturally, Caroline leaped toward the pianoforte before Elizabeth could say a word. _Ha! Two birds with one stone! _

Only when Miss Bingley had begun lowering herself to sit on the piano bench did she remember her manners. "Miss Elizabeth, would you lead the way?"

"Oh, no. No, no, no, by all means, Miss Bingley, play on. You assuredly will entertain the gentlemen far better than I ever could." If Darcy hadn't been in control of himself, a talent he often took much pride in, he surely would have laughed aloud. Miss Bingley entertain him? Better than she? _Not likely. _

Miss Bingley gracefully took her place, stretched her fingers, and began to play. One thing Darcy particularly loved about music was that people never wished to interrupt it. For the most part, people left him alone during musical interludes, and he could sit and enjoy the peaceful world of his inner thoughts.

As the Italian songs came to an end and made way for a lively Scotch air, Darcy began to think of dancing.

And dancing made him think of dancing with Elizabeth.

And dancing with Elizabeth made him think of how he had never danced with Elizabeth.

If he could, he would ask her to dance this very moment. He would go to her, hold out his hand, and in a very _debonair _tone of voice say, "Do you not feel a great inclination, Miss Bennet, to seize such an opportunity of dancing a reel?"

It took him a sum of five seconds to realize he had actually done it.

He had actually done it? Good God, he had actually done it! He had asked her to dance! And she was saying…nothing! She just sat there, smiling at him! He could feel the heat of a blush on his face, and felt instantly ridiculous and utterly humiliated. There was nothing else to do but repeat the question. "Ah, Miss Bennet, would you wish to dance a reel?…With me?" Lord, how he sounded like a mooncalf!

"Oh! I heard you before, but I could not immediately determine what to say in reply. You wanted me, I know, to say 'Yes,' that you might have the pleasure of despising my taste." _Despising your taste? _"But," she added with a wicked grin, "I always take delight in overthrowing those kinds of schemes, and cheating a person of their premeditated contempt. I have, therefore, made up my mind to tell you, that I do not want to dance a reel at all - and now despise me if you dare."

…_Touché. _

A hit, a palpable hit. Although Darcy was disappointed, her refusal of him somehow made him even more attracted to her. Amazing. She was simply amazing. "Indeed…I do not dare."


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter VI

Playing the Fool

Darcy stood at a mirror, staring at his heavy, dark, saggy excuse for a face.

Sleep had almost completely eluded him for the entire length of Miss Bennet's stay at Netherfield, and as a result his face appeared limp and lifeless, and his eyes, normally his most animated feature when others were present, could not be called to shine for even his own self. With a sigh, Darcy examined the heavy skin under his eyelids. He had never been worried about his appearance before. But now, what with Elizabeth's daily presence in his life, he could not help but care how he looked. Or rather, how he looked in her eyes. Was he a fool for thinking so? Yes, he decided as he turned from his reflection in disgust, he was a fool. A fool for being so vain, and sometimes, he thought, a fool for being the wretch of a man he was.

Normally Darcy's self-esteem was not so low. He was undeniably a very anxious man, a very unconfident, self-despising man. Ever since he was a young lad - after the betrayal of the one friend he thought he had in this world (that bastard Wickham) - he had been so insecure, and so unsure of himself. Now those wretched emotions renewed themselves tenfold. Although it was a contemplation he had positively _forbidden _to enter his mind, Darcy could not help but wonder what Elizabeth thought of him. She was civil to him at least. For the life of him he could not cipher her beguiling word play, but did she at all enjoy his company? Or did she see him as the fool he had always thought himself to be; perhaps, did she see him as far worse? These questions led only to more self-hatred, more self-denial, and less sleep. His weary mind was no longer visited by the dreams that had lately been so regular, for the self-conscious man now spent his nights staring at the ceiling, recalling all the mistakes he had made while in Elizabeth's company and hating himself for making them. And so he continued playing the fool, day and night, night and day.

Kendall returned from the dressing room carrying two waistcoats, one of which he would don for dinner that night. "The green or the blue, sir?"

Not even Kendall's kind smile was enough to rid him of his bleak mood. "I care not which," he answered shortly.

Sympathetic of his master's distress, Kendall did not take offense at Darcy's bluntness. "Perhaps the blue, sir," Kendall offered, "for I know you favor blue."

"What I favor, what I do not favor, it is all for naught."

The master had been in a foul mood before, but it was nothing in comparison to this. Kendall placed a reassuring hand on Darcy's shoulder. Unlike most rich gentlemen and respected valets, Darcy and Kendall had not only master-servant relations, but friendly relations as well. The master was not afraid to speak of personal matters to his servant, and the servant was always willing to listen and ready to assist. "I am a fool, Kendall," the master agonized with a sigh.

The servant responded with a shake of his head, "Come, come, sir, you are no fool. You are a very intelligent man. If you are a fool, you are only a fool for fooling yourself into thinking you're a fool."

Darcy raised a confused brow. " 'If you are a fool, you are only a fool…' "

"Forgive me for talking in riddles, sir. I merely meant to assure you that you are very bright indeed." Darcy gave him an incredulous look as he turned to face the mirror once more.

"However, I must admit, sir, that this expression of foolishness has come about quite suddenly. Might I ask if you have done something…particularly foolish recently? Perhaps in front of someone? Someone…special?"

He didn't. He couldn't.

But he did.

Kendall knew of Darcy's feelings for Elizabeth. It was all there, etched on his prying, eavesdropping, conniving little face. Kendall knew everything. "How did you…?"

"Well, I happened to hear the name of a certain lady murmured multiple times in a certain someone's sleep on a certain night, nothing more."

"Kendall, will you cease with the repetition!" In truth, Darcy's angry tone belied his words, for he felt an instant relief at having his feelings out in the open. However, he was firmly resolved to remain in denial of what he knew to be the truth. "…I could have been speaking of…my dog."

Kendall cocked a brow at him. "You have a dog named Elizabeth?" Darcy sighed in defeat and held his face in his hands, vigorously rubbing his throbbing temples.

"Sir," Kendall continued, "if you truly wish to gain the lady's regard, I suggest you sweep her off her little slippered feet. Offer her compliments. Say something that will..._provoke her attention_."

Darcy was an ill-experienced man when in came to such things, therefore he could not be certain, but it sounded almost as if…

"Are you suggesting I adopt a…_flirtatious _attitude toward Miss Elizabeth?" _Flirtatious. _Damn, what an awkward word it was.

"Not at all, sir!" Kendall assured him with a look of horror. Yet his laughter could easily be heard as he returned to the dressing room.

"Perhaps, sir," Kendall called, "I might suggest a brighter blue for your waistcoat? Bright colors are certain to attract a woman's attention."

"No!" …He relented. "Yes."

* * *

><p>Fate was kind.<p>

Darcy was seated directly to Elizabeth's left, and Miss Bingley was as far from him as could be possible at Netherfield's dining table. It was the perfect opportunity to engage Elizabeth in some completely _not foolish _conversation. Pray God he would succeed.

"Do tell, Miss Elizabeth," Caroline purred after swallowing her sip of wine, "where you have purchased your gown. I find it rather…_interesting."_

Any other woman would meekly concede or blush and remain silent. Not Elizabeth. She proudly lifted her chin and remarked, "Actually, I made it, Miss Bingley. With the help of my darling sister who is now ailing above stairs." Although intended as a means of silencing her hostess, Elizabeth's declaration was clearly brought on by the genuine affection she possessed for her elder sister.

Darcy could not help but be moved. "Your feelings do you much credit, Miss Bennet." Elizabeth turned to face him, and her expression turned from one of coyness to utter astonishment. Astonished by what? Perhaps, the sincere look in his eye? Did she not know him to be sincere? Surprised, but still possessed by her charming obstinacy, she simply lifted her chin once more and quietly replied, "Thank you, Mr. Darcy," and began to turn from him.

Darcy then heard Kendall's voice reverberating over and over in his mind. _If you truly wish to gain the lady's regard…sweep her off her little slippered feet… _He could not lose her attention. "I am in complete agreement with Miss Bingley. You look most beautiful tonight, Miss Bennet." Bingley choked on his fowl and Miss Bingley appeared infuriated as she brutally offered her brother several blows to the back. Elizabeth's face was partially flushed as she returned her wide-eyed gaze to his face. Lord, how surpassingly lovely she was. Her dark hair simply styled and tied with a pretty green ribbon; the simple - yet very fine - homemade dress she wore with pride flattering her fine figure in more ways than one; her brown eyes alight with bright sparks of interest; her creamy pale skin gradually becoming eclipsed by a rosy blush. He could not fathom a word, a thought, an action with so much beauty before him. Then she discreetly licked her dry lips, unknowingly heightening his already far too powerful feelings of arousal. Something, he truly knew not what, must have flashed in his bright blue eyes, for Elizabeth's eyes both widened and darkened as her blush became an even deeper red. _Oh, God. _(He had been using that expression quite a bit lately.) It took every ounce of fortitude he possessed to stifle the groan threatening to escape him as his blood became hotter and hotter. Had he no self-control? Apparently he had none, and no doubt every person at this table could see it clearly. He was ashamed, embarrassed, and utterly humiliated, and could do nothing more than lower his head and stare at the food he could not possibly stomach after what he had just done. Darcy could clearly hear the hardening of Elizabeth's voice as she thanked him once more. _Damn, damn, damn, can I do nothing right? _

At some point during the restart of Miss Bingley's Shall-We-Insult-Miss-Elizabeth? conversation, Darcy stared into his wine glass and lost himself in thought. He had been told to sweep Elizabeth off her feet. _'Tis not so easy as you made it sound, Kendall. _If he could have been in control of the situation, if he could have been ensured that all would turn out well, he would have easily fulfilled such a task. And how marvelous it would have been! Unfortunately, such a thing could not be. In reality, at least.

In his mind, he thought with the slightest of smiles, he could easily do the most outrageous things imaginable, with no one to stop him and no consequences. What was it the blissfully happy couples did at dinner? They held hands, did they not? He could easily have reached for her unquestionably silky soft hand and held it under the table. It was fascinating how something so simple as holding another human being's hand could become so complex. He could thoroughly imagine the way their fingers would perfectly intertwine. His brain could effortlessly create the most intimate of scenes, such as moving their joined hands to rest on his knee; or massaging her delicate hand with his thumb during particularly trying times throughout the night, and feeling the way her adorable little body shivered upon his doing so. Hell, if imagination ruled, he could make love to her right there on the dining room table, directly beside the plum pudding. In the delightful confines of his mind, he could say or do anything his heart desired and escape from playing the horrible fool in horrible world. For the moment, he felt better. Perhaps, he could content himself for the rest of his long life simply imagining what would never be and could never be. He would never and could never make love to Elizabeth on a dining room table. But he could imagine whatever he liked, and hopefully that would be enough.

* * *

><p>In the drawing room after dinner, Miss Bingley had decided to walk about the room.<p>

Perhaps her goal was to appear the fierce lioness, inciting the carnal excitement of her chosen mate.

Darcy thought she looked something more along the lines of a diseased ostrich.

The way she slowly romped about fluttering her eyelashes made him feel ill. Had he eaten his dinner, it surely would have been thrust out of his stomach by now. Not that he was watching her very closely. He would much rather read _Hamlet _and learn of _"how a king may go a progress through the guts of a beggar" _than stare cow-eyed at the conceited Caroline Bingley.

_Hamlet _was Darcy's favorite work of Shakespeare, and therefore a great counteraction to the waves of nausea coming over him. It also kept his mind off of Elizabeth, and he began to feel far more relaxed than he had in weeks. He continued reading, picturing the scenery of Denmark and its fictional people in vivid detail.

_He could see Hamlet's father-uncle as he roughly holds his nephew-son by his jaw. "Where…is…Polonius?" he growls. And Hamlet laughs and upturns his mouth into a contemptuous smile as he answers, "In heaven; send hither to see - "_

"Miss Eliza Bennet," Miss Bingley cried, breaking through the walls of the palace of Denmark, "let me persuade you to follow my example and take a turn about the room. I assure you it is very refreshing after sitting so long in one attitude."

Darcy looked up.

Elizabeth was clearly surprised by this invitation, but she did not even quaver as she stood and answered graciously, "I would be delighted, Miss Bingley."

Without thinking, Darcy closed his book, his attention now fixed entirely upon Elizabeth.

Miss Bingley slid her arm around Elizabeth's, linking them together without any emotion, and slowly recommenced her promenade about the drawing room. Never had walking appeared more delectable. Or more beautiful. If Miss Bingley had been looking to catch his attention, for once, she had succeeded. In this instance, Darcy could not see himself as a fool. What man, fool or no, could resist beholding the awe-inspiring image now before his eyes? Had he not been so entranced, Darcy would have seen the faces of the rest of their party and been most afraid of appearing the fool. If he had possessed the ability of breaking his longing eyes and yearning heart away from the woman in front of him, he would have seen the confused look on Bingley's face, the concerned look of Miss Jane Bennet (who had felt well enough to join them after dinner), and the irritated glare of Louisa Parrot, and instantly desisted. He noticed not any person or thing in the room but the lady who so gracefully circled him. Even his precious _Hamlet _became obsolete.

"Would you care to join us in our exercise, Mr. Darcy?" Caroline asked, reaching a claw tipped hand out to him.

"N-no, Miss Bingley, I thank you." _I would rather watch. _Darcy nearly laughed aloud, so amused was he by his actually having had a flirtatious thought.

Flirtatious!

Perhaps there was hope for him yet! "I can only imagine _two _motives for your choosing to walk up and down the room together," Darcy continued, ensuring he made his tone as suggestive as a man unfamiliar with suggestive tones possibly could.

Elizabeth raised her lovely left eyebrow as Miss Bingley cried, "What can he mean, Miss Elizabeth? Mr. Darcy, I am simply dying to know your meaning! Miss Elizabeth, can you at all understand him?"

In reply, Elizabeth bit her lip, surely attempting to suppress hysteric, beautiful laughter, and remarked with an impish grin, "Not at all. But depend upon it, he means to be _severe _on us - " How could Darcy not smile at such blithe impertinence? " - and our surest way of disappointing him will be to ask him nothing about it."

Mr. Darcy had smiled at Elizabeth a way he never had before, and Miss Bingley visibly blanched with fury in response. Luckily, she did not deny Darcy his little amorous act of flirtation. In fact, she encouraged it! "Mr. Darcy, you are incorrigible! Come, sir, we simply must have an explanation of these two _motives_."

Show time.

"I have not the smallest objection to explaining them." Darcy looked directly into Elizabeth's eyes as she passed him. "You either choose this method of passing the evening because you are in each other's confidence, and have _secret _affairs to discuss, or because you are conscious that your figures appear to the greatest advantage by walking." He hadn't intended for this to be his ending; but Elizabeth appeared so interested and amused that he went on, pronouncing each word slowly, and letting them almost hang in the air around them. "If the first, I should be completely in your way, and if _the second, _" his emphasis made it quite clear he believed it to be the second, "I can admire you much better as I sit by the fire." The rosy blush that had so captivated Darcy at dinner colored Elizabeth's face once more.

Victory was sweet.

* * *

><p>Good night, Mr. Darcy. Pleasant dreams, Mr. Darcy. Good night, Darcy, don't be up too late.<p>

All the Netherfield party had made the decision to retire for the night. All except Mr. Darcy.

Darcy sat on the settee in the drawing room completely enveloped in thought. Not even the Prince Hamlet of Denmark could call him from his musings.

He had begun to feel the danger of paying Elizabeth too much attention.

Not only the woman's appearance but her words and actions interested him as nothing ever had before. Every movement she made, every syllable she uttered sent a flash of lightning through his senses and threatened to set his blood afire.

He could remember every wickedly impertinent comment she had made that evening. _"Tease him - laugh at him." _Had any other woman every dared to speak to him so? He had told her that his good opinion, once lost, was lost forever. But he was convinced that no matter what the sweet, determined, willful, beguiling, delightful Elizabeth Bennet did, she would never _ever _lose his good opinion. That was a danger in itself. For many years Darcy had made it his philosophy to trust no person completely and whole-heartedly. And now he found himself willing and even happy to give his entire soul and entire self to one woman he barely knew. What did that make him? A hypocrite _and _a fool?

Luckily, thanks to Elizabeth's unfortunately low connections, he was saved from doing anything he would regret. There could be no alliance between them. There never would be an alliance between them. Perhaps the real danger was the great aching pain in his chest at the terrible idea.

Without thinking, Darcy walked out of the drawing room, soon finding himself out of doors. Shivering in the cold, he circled the stone exterior of Netherfield Hall, turning his gaze from the night stars to the windows above him. He passed Bingley's window…the Hursts' window…Caroline's window… and the multiple windows of rooms without inhabitants, here and there and in-between.

And then he saw Elizabeth.

She stood in the window of the room in which Miss Jane took refuge, the room in which she had so kindly tended her ailing sister, holding a candle and gazing at the night sky. Darcy could barely move, barely breathe, but he was somehow able to swallow the huge lump forming in his throat and move so that he blended into the shadows. Then she carefully placed the candle on the windowsill, wrapped the shawl that she wore over her chemise tightly about her, put her two delicate hands together, and began to pray.

Even if he had wanted to, Darcy could not stop himself. He closed his eyes and prayed, _Dear Lord, please grant her her every prayer. Please ensure she wants for nothing. Please bless her. _

Ever so softly, he retreated, back into Netherfield, back to his room, aware that he would never stop playing the fool.

But he would be a fool, a wise man, anything…for her.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter VII

Alas, My Love

A restless night was spent.

For hours Darcy laid in bed, his eyes incapable of closing, his mind incapable of taking respite. He thought not of the glorious relaxation even a short moment of rest would bring him, but of Elizabeth. Only of Elizabeth, from the late hours of the night to the first light of the morning.

Though his eyes were black and drooping under their lids, and his mind was jumbled and muddled to the point where he could barely contrive a complete thought, Darcy arose at an early hour. He was assisted by Kendall in bathing, shaving and dressing, and was able to arrive downstairs before the others had even left their beds.

He immediately retreated to the library - a depressingly ill-furnished library with one desk, one chair, and multiple empty bookshelves that had not yet been filled. Darcy turned the leather chair behind the big mahogany desk away from the door and toward the windows, so that he could sit and watch as the sun rose over the misty landscape. The blessedly silent simplicity of the moment, and the beauty of the picturesque scene in front of him, finally induced Darcy's mind and heart to be at leisure, and he soon fell into a blissfully deep sleep.

He escaped thoughts of Elizabeth, only to become lost in a dream of her.

_He was no longer in Netherfield's library, but in his own library at Pemberley. _

_And she was everywhere._

_Elizabeth appeared next to a bookshelf, popped in front of the window, materialized on top of his desk. On the settee, near the hearth, behind a book, against his chair, disappearing as quickly as she had appeared in each place. It was not a delight, it was torture! He could not touch her or speak to her, only go mad with confusion as, with a ghostly air, she vanished and appeared, vanished and appeared, again and again. Her laughter rang loudly in his ears, and he felt with an overwhelming pang that he could never escape. She would never stop haunting his heart. _

He awoke to the faint sound of singing:

* "Alas, my love you do me wrong,

To cast me off discourteously."

It was Elizabeth.

The door behind him opened, and he could sense the undeniable closeness of her. In her lovely soprano voice, she softly sang on:

"For I have loved you well and long,

Delighting in your company."

For a moment he thought himself still dreaming. But he could smell the potent scent of roses and lavender that permeated the air, could feel her presence as she edged further into the room, and he knew he was awake. Darcy heard the tread of her slippered feet become louder and louder till they stopped directly behind him. He could hear the turning of pages. She must have been perusing the only books in the library: those casually piled on the mahogany desk. Clearly, she had not realized she had company. She sang on:

"Greensleeves was all my joy…"

Lord, how smooth and sultry her voice was when she sang!

"Greensleeves was my delight,

Greensleeves was my heart of gold,

And who but my lady Greensleeves."

She sang the poignant song of a man fallen into an obsessive love. Of a man who coveted a woman he could not have. Was there ever another tune so perfectly suited to his desperate, delicate situation? In fact, why did he not sing it? He was obsessive, he was insane in his attraction to her. However, he assured himself, it would not go on for long.

But, God help him, he could not keep from closing his eyes in utter ecstasy as Elizabeth's heavenly voice continued to reverberate in his heart's very core.

"Alas, my love, that you should own

A heart of wanton vanity…"

* * *

><p>Later that morning in the breakfast room, Miss Jane begged for use of Bingley's carriage, so that she and her sister could return to their home as swiftly as possible.<p>

To Bingley the idea was unconscionable. "Miss Bennet, we could not possibly throw you out so, and on such short notice! What if you are not quite well as of yet? I must insist that you cannot leave this morning." There was no mistaking the wild gleam in Bingley's eyes as he entreated his dear Jane not to leave. The look did not escape Miss Jane's notice either, for she blushed delicately and averted her eyes in response.

Seeing that her sister was incapable of further argument, Elizabeth lifted her chin in that daring manner of hers and responded in her sister's stead. "Mr. Bingley, Miss Bingley, we could not possibly intrude any longer on your hospitality. My sister has assured me she feels well enough for the short journey, and therefore we cannot guiltlessly continue to take advantage of your kindness."

Bingley smiled amiably as he cried, "Miss Elizabeth, you do not intrude on us! Your stay here has been a joy and a pleasure! Is not that so, Caroline?"

Miss Bingley did not even flinch as she answered, "Yes, a joy and a pleasure!" However, Darcy thought, her glare at Elizabeth said otherwise. Caroline then turned to Miss Jane. "Miss Bennet, _I _must insist that you are not well enough to return home this morning. We cannot let you leave and risk damaging your health, can we?"

Elizabeth saw that they would not budge, and conceded. "Very well. _We_," she smiled and took her elder sister's hand, "thank you." Miss Jane's blush deepened as she added her heartfelt thanks. "But," Elizabeth added, "if my sister's health remains improved, we must ask leave to return to Longbourn on the morrow."

Bingley looked disappointed, but nevertheless replied, "As you wish, Miss Jane, Miss Elizabeth."

Darcy himself was a bit disappointed at being deprived of the joy Elizabeth's company brought him, but it was, overall, a welcome intelligence. Elizabeth had been at Netherfield long enough.

She attracted him more than he liked.

Whenever he found himself in her company, Darcy's heart beat rapidly and his cravat felt uncomfortably tight. The morning was brutally cold, and in response all seated in the breakfast room were freezing, despite the heavily stoked fire. All but Darcy, who looked at Elizabeth's milky white skin (now pale with cold) and its sharp contrast to her dark, warm eyes, and could feel beads of sweat appear on his palms and drip down his neck. Her fierce independence and firm resolve also set his pulse racing. Never before had he met a woman so strong, so bold, so intelligent, and yet, he thought as he glanced at the Bennet sisters' still joined hands, so sweet.

Enough was enough. Fitzwilliam Darcy was a man world-renowned for his focus and control. However, he was anything but focused and controlled when he was in Elizabeth's presence, and it would not do.

It would all stop, this very day! He would speak to her no more, and then, by the time she had gone and left him in peace, Elizabeth would be completely forgotten.

He was determined.

* * *

><p>He had a plan.<p>

And it was a damned good one, he thought.

He would avoid Elizabeth's company the entire day - a difficult task, but it could be done. If he frequented those areas of the house in which she was least likely to be present, he could easily avoid speaking with her, and without the appearance of being rude.

Brilliant.

And not only did this plan benefit himself, but Elizabeth as well. Darcy would never wish her to gain vain hopes of something…_felicitous _occurring between them. No matter how much he wished something felicitous were occurring between them, there was nothing. And there would always be _nothing_, because sadly _something _between them was simply impossible. His plan would not only save himself, but her from disappointment, were he to show any more signs of his undeniable admiration for her while in her company.

Not only were the two of them saved from disappointment, but they were saved from the wrath of Caroline Bingley. All throughout Elizabeth's stay at Netherfield, Miss Bingley had been uncivil to _her _and more teasing than usualto _himself_. Being spared such annoyance would surely do them both a world of good.

He would frequent those areas of the house in which she was least likely to be present.

Simple enough.

…Right?

…Right.

Darcy chose the library as his desired location. _Good, _he thought as he sluggishly sat in the large chair from earlier that morning. _She has already been here once this morning. And why would an avid reader such as Elizabeth revisit a library with few books?_

The Netherfield library was a decent size, but the only books in residence there were those precariously stacked on the desk in front of him. Darcy briefly studied them. From the look of it, the stacks were generally comprised of agricultural books, historical works, practically ancient literature, and some of the less than popular works of Shakespeare - nothing that would suit a woman's fancy. Most women read gothic novels, did they not? Thankfully, there was not a single gothic novel in sight.

_Then again, Elizabeth is not most women. _

Almost immediately following the thought, the library door slowly began to open. Darcy swiftly hid behind _Hamlet_ and pretended he had turned invisible. The person entered and closed the door. Darcy's gaze briefly flicked above his book.

Of course it was Elizabeth.

"Oh!" she cried upon seeing him. "Forgive me, I wished to return this book and claim another." Damn, he had not thought of that! She stood near the door, waiting for him to respond, but Darcy refused to even budge. He had a plan, and _this time _he was going to follow it.

"Well," she continued, stepping toward the dusty stacks of novels, "I will make another selection and be on my way."

"No!"

Elizabeth's mouth gaped.

Oh.

Had he said that aloud?

Darcy forced his eyes to remain firmly on his page. "No, Miss Bennet," he said after an awkward clearing of his throat, "please sit."

Her mouth slowly closed as her left brow raised, both at the same rate. "Thank you," she replied. Cautiously, Elizabeth took the seat across him and began to peruse the wall of books between them. Try as he might to keep his notice on _Hamlet, _Darcy could not help but glance at the book Elizabeth wished to return. It was an incredibly musty volume of Shakespeare's sonnets. Did she not enjoy poetry? Or, heaven forbid, did she not enjoy Shakespeare?

"Oh no," Elizabeth whispered as she ceased in examining the stacks, "I had been hoping for - " At her abrupt stop, Darcy looked up. Elizabeth's eyes rested on the leather bound book in his hands. "I had been hoping for _Hamlet_," she finished with an embarrassed smile that melted his heart. Darcy hastily lowered his eyes once more.

It would be the gentlemanly thing to do, he thought. But, damn blast it, he could not afford to be a gentleman! Lending Elizabeth his book would be asking for a flirtation. And asking for a flirtation would raise nothing but hopeless expectations for them both.

Elizabeth quickly retrieved the abandoned sonnets. "It is of no consequence," she continued in a warm tone of voice. "Though _Hamlet _is my favorite work of Shakespeare - "

"Really?" Darcy suddenly blurted out.

Elizabeth was again surprised, but recovered herself quickly. "Yes. However, I will be home tomorrow; and there I may read my own copy whenever I choose. Besides, I should be reading the sonnets. It seems almost shameful that I have not done so already."

Darcy nervously swallowed, then returned his eyes to the scene of _Hamlet _he truly could no longer attend to. She loved _Hamlet_ - another incredible coincidence.

His obstinate mind told him he should not care.

But, Lord help him, he did!

Darcy finally allowed his gaze to fully behold her. Elizabeth sat gracefully in the straight-backed chair, holding the open book of sonnets closely to her breast while she read, as if she willed the words to fall directly from the pages to her heart. The light from the window captured her perfectly, in all of her radiant beauty; and Darcy could not help but close his book and become completely transfixed by her. Had he been capable of thought, Darcy's mind would certainly have become quite busy, what with having many scandalous thoughts and being forced to shove them out. But for the moment Darcy's mind was blank, and he could only feel. There was an indescribable gleam in his blue eyes, and a warm glow suffused his every feature.

Any experienced person could see that he was a man in love.

Unfortunately, neither Fitzwilliam Darcy nor Elizabeth Bennet had knowledgeable eyes with which to see it.

Because Darcy was incapable of thought, he was also incapable of keeping track of time. He had unknowingly stared at Elizabeth for ten minutes altogether, until she suddenly sighed and began to close her book. Darcy hurriedly reopened his book and made a quick attempt to find his page. Scene one, scene two - Oh, whatever the hell scene, it did not matter!

"Well," Elizabeth passively sighed, completely unaware of his discomfort, "I had better return to my sister. Good day, Mr. Darcy."

"Good - " Darcy had not time to finish before Elizabeth left the room. His throat had suddenly become very dry, and his voice reduced to a raspy whisper.

"Good day."

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><p>The following day was a Sunday, and the Misses Bennet had decided to take their leave after services at the local church.<p>

Though only yesterday Darcy had felt utterly ashamed at his vile lack of self-control, he later realized that he should congratulate himself on his overall success. He had scarcely spoken ten words to Elizabeth throughout the whole of Saturday, and on Sunday even less. During services, he had scarcely reacted to the beautiful rose-colored dress she wore (though it was damnably fetching); or to the fact that they had sat directly next to each other in a closely confined pew (though the delicate fabric of the damnably fetching dress had brushed against his thigh a total of seven times); nor had he released a single growl or groan when she sang the church hymns (though he could have sworn her voice came directly from heaven); and his voice did not crack when he bade her good bye (though in his mind, it had.)

And yet, even in the latest hours of the night, Darcy remained unable to rid himself of the pain that had erupted in his chest the moment Elizabeth was handed into her family's carriage and the door was closed behind her. Netherfield seemed colder, as if the building itself recognized her absence. And no matter how many layers of blanket and sheet were piled high atop him as he laid in bed, he felt a chill. Darcy held the corner of the coverlet tightly in his fist, feeling a strange mixture of anger and agony.

He could still hear her voice.

_"Alas, my love, you do me wrong…." _He placed a pillow over his face in order to cover his groan. _"To cast me off discourteously…" _The groan escaped, regardless - a deep groan of thick, hot breath that tempted to burn the feather pillow with its passionate fire.

His voice was almost inaudible as he sang for only the darkness to hear. "For I have loved you well and long…Delighting in your company."

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><p>* <em>The song Elizabeth sings is called, "Greensleeves."<em>


	8. Chapter 8

_This chapter is dedicated to my dear friend, MissAnissa, whose brand new P&P fanfic you can find right here: _.net/s/7754234/1/Youre_The_Best_Kept_Secret _! She is the Bingley to my Darcy, despite the fact that she writes about Mr. Wickham. ;)_

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><p><em>Note: This chapter contains some <span>subscript<span>! So when you see a star like this: * ...just scroll down to the bottom of this page for a little explanation of whatever it precedes!_

_Enjoy! :)_

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><p>Chapter VIII<p>

The Problems With George

Darcy could not deny it.

He longed for Elizabeth. Yearned for her, in fact. Though his interaction with her throughout her stay at Netherfield had consisted only of friendly debates - or perhaps _unfriendly_, for he still could not determine which - and a few mortifyingly awkward moments, Elizabeth's absence brought an indescribably sharp pang of loneliness on his already too lonely heart. In a matter of five days, Darcy had grown accustomed to the very spirit of her presence. He had come to take delight in the delicious smell of lavender and roses that had greeted him each day. He had grown to anticipate the moment when the entire world seemed to brighten upon Elizabeth's entering a room.

Monday seemed far too dark a day. Under normal circumstances, Darcy would have called himself a wretched fool for thinking the day darker simply because a woman he hardly knew had gone and left a day ago; but, heaven help him, he felt far too depressingly low to chide himself. So he simply let the absurd thoughts and feelings come and go as they pleased, deciding he could name himself King of the Fools tomorrow. Therefore, Darcy spent the majority of the dark, bleak Monday musing on Elizabeth's voice, Elizabeth's laugh, Elizabeth's uncommonly fine eyes, Elizabeth's delectably sensual left brow…or rather, his lack thereof. By the time night fell and everyone was abed, Darcy felt practically intoxicated - as if he had done nothing all the day but drink bottles and bottles of a potently strong liquor called Elizabeth Bennet. If attempting to hold tight the reins of his unruly thoughts had been exhausting, permitting them to run rampant was doubly so. What he needed more than anything else was a long, _long _rest.

That way, he would have the energy to continue missing Elizabeth on the morrow.

And perhaps, if he was very lucky, he would dream of her.

He was not very lucky.

_The mind is an unpredictable thing; for certainly Darcy could not have predicted he would dream of George Wickham that night. _

_Not only was the dream focused on a person he detested the mere thought or mention of, but it was a terrible, guilt-inducing memory, dash it all. _

_It was a long ago memory, from nearly some twenty years past. He could vividly see the spritely six-year-old George, with his eternally smug little smile and his mangy brown hair tinted with shades of red, as he pulled him by the hand. "Come on, Will," he cried, goading him onward, "or you'll be left out on all the fun! - again." The little Master Fitzwilliam was plagued with the tendency of being very, very shy. Seeing as the local boys all found him deadly dull, they never let him participate in their jokes and games. But George, his best (and only) friend, he would let him. So of course he wouldn't risk a chance at fun by slowing down! Little Fitzwilliam quickened his pace to match George's as they raced hand in hand through the gardens of Pemberley. From the gardens they made several twists and turns until they found themselves at the stables. Darcy could hear the thunderous pound of his heartbeat as it protruded from the waves of his subconscious. Never would he forget this day - the day when the problems with George all began. He wanted to reach out for his younger self, grab him by the collar, scream at him not to listen to the little blackguard. But it was too late to change the past. _

_"What are we doing here?" his young self asked, excited and anxious for a new adventure. _

_"We," George replied, as he tip-toed toward an enormous black horse, "are gifting these beasts with some lovely jewelry." _

_"Lovely jewelry?" That didn't sound very fun at all. _

_"With this." George then produced from his pocket a shimmering necklace of sapphires. _

_The young Fitzwilliam's mouth gaped in shock. "My mother's necklace?" More specifically, the grown Darcy thought as his heart continued to beat faster and faster, his mother's __**favorite **__necklace, given to her by his father as a wedding present. _

_"Yes!" George hissed with an evil sort of glee. "My father was ordered to have it sent out for cleaning, but I filched it from his desk before he could!" _

_"George, you have to put that back!" _

_"Why?" George asked with a defiant grin. _

_"Because…Because..." He never did have a way with words. "Because you have to!"_

_"Oh, I see, because I have to. Well I'm not going to put it on the horse. You are." With an ugly snort, George placed the necklace in his hand. "Besides, the horse will love it. And everyone will have a good laugh!" _

_"But I don't think it's a good idea, George!"_

_"You don't think so, hmm? You've never played a trick in your life, Will! But __**I **__know what I'm talking about. If you want the other boys to like you, you need to do something funny. And this will be an absolute laugh riot!" George placed a reassuring little hand on his shoulder as he whispered wickedly, "Don't worry! It's all in fun, so just put the necklace on the horse!"_

_His younger self hesitated, staring cow-eyed at the glimmering string of sapphires resting in his palm. It seemed very wrong._

_George pushed him farther into the stable, nearly causing him to collide with the big black beast. "Come on, Will!" he yelled in a hushed voice. Then his tone instantly turned from anxious and hasty, to cold and tempting. "If you back down now…none of them will ever like you."_

_It was idiotic and immature. But, oh, how he wanted to be liked. So ever so slowly he stretched his arms toward the horse…and dropped the necklace. _

_Somehow, the thing managed to disappear from sight in a mere half a second._

_They heard a stableboy coming and quickly deserted the scene of the crime, George bellowing all the while, "You ruined the joke! You ruined everything!"_

When Darcy awoke, he found his pillow bound so tightly in his fist, it looked as if he aimed to strangle it. Darcy slowly released his hold, and with a groan, sat up in the heavy dark, briskly raking a hand through his disheveled hair.

Good Lord, of all the dreams! Why would that horrible memory come to him now? After he had lost the sapphire necklace, nearly all of the Pemberley staff had gone mad looking for it, until finally their efforts had proved fruitless and the search was given up. He would have spoken up sooner, and told the truth as he had wished to do, had not Wickham urged him to keep everything in "strict confidence." But his poor mother's distress at losing hermost prized possession had been too much for him to bear, and he soon went to his parents to confess his misdeed. However, his poor little heart also could not bear to sever his only friendship by relating George Wickham's part in the scheme. So he had laid the blame where he felt blame was due: entirely on himself. His mother had been heartbroken and utterly shocked that her son would play such a mean trick upon her, and his father had sighed and shook his head, muttering, "Ah, why can't you be more like young George?"

The necklace was soon found by a young stable lad, restoring both his mother's happiness and his father's peace. Though his parents had assured him all was forgiven by them, Darcy never forgave himself. He had made his mother cry, and for what? Popularity. Young as he had been, Darcy had well understood the meaning of integrity, and had known that he had certainly not exercised integrity that day. From then on, he had vowed to always be honest, respectful, dutiful, loyal, competent: all the things a noble son should be. And when he was not all those things he would utterly despise himself. A vow he continued to uphold to this day.

But he had never blamed George. Sadly, he had been far too vulnerable a lad to actually hold the little brat accountable for any of his wrongs. Even when Wickham later continued to drag him into the worst possible trouble, Darcy had never been able to regard him as anything less than a wonderful friend.

Yes, George Wickham had been a conniving little shit of a boy.

And later a conniving little shit of a man.

But now he had had enough of Wickham. His exhaustion and frustration were bringing his blood to a furious boil, and quite frankly he was not in any mood for exploding tonight. Thank God, he thought, that he had not seen Wickham for some months. Hopefully, he would never see the man again.

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><p>By Tuesday's coming Darcy had completely rid his mind of the troublesome Mr. Wickham and begun to focus on more trivial matters.<p>

He had calculated that he may not see Elizabeth again for some time - at least not until the ball Bingley was hosting at Netherfield. Through a simple method of deduction, Darcy had surmised that seeing as Elizabeth's sister was unlikely to be recovered enough from her illness in order to go out, and also putting into consideration the fact that Hertfordshire society was limited in its pursuits, it was quite possible that he would not be in Elizabeth's company again for many weeks. Excellent. That meant he would have many weeks to forget her.

Then again, Darcy thought, it didn't feel very excellent at all.

But enough of foolishness. Darcy had already been wasting the day away, factoring the unlikeliness of meeting with Elizabeth, when he should have been factoring the progress of his crops or resolving arguments between his tenants. For nearly a month he had idly sat at Netherfield and had not gotten very much estate business done. And then with a gasp, Darcy realized…he had practically done nothing at all! There were things to organize, letters to his solicitor to write! Oh, what was the matter with him? He hadn't behaved at all like his normal self since -

Since the day he met Elizabeth.

Quite uncharacteristically, he had scarcely even thought of doing work, thinking only of Elizabeth, Elizabeth, Elizabeth. It was unlike him to forget his responsibilities, and Darcy would not allow any woman to cause that change in him. With firm resolve Darcy left the solitude of his room and sought out Bingley.

"Bingley!" Darcy called as he spotted his friend at the far end of the hall. Bingley turned and quickly approached him.

"Darcy, I was just looking for you!"

He wished to have this little tête-à-tête concluded as quickly as possible, so that he could swiftly enclose himself in the Netherfield library and cease neglecting Pemberley and all his duties. In clipped, business-like tones Darcy said, "Bingley, I wished to inform you that I have an enormous amount of work to do - letters to write, disputes to settle - "

"Proclamations to make?" Bingley added with a sarcastic wink.

Darcy rolled his eyes and continued, "Therefore, I unfortunately cannot spend the day frolicking about the countryside with you, nor can I sacrifice myself as entertainment for your sisters - not until I have some work done."

"Well, that's a pity," Bingley replied with a sigh and a disappointed frown, "I had been looking for you in hopes that you would join me in my visit to Longbourn." Darcy's heart instantly began to hammer. _Longbourn…Elizabeth's home. _"I wished to enquire after Miss Bennet's health, but if you cannot accompany me I suppose I can - "

Darcy quickly raised a halting hand. "Wait, Bingley!" The prudent little voice in the back of his mind told him this was a very bad idea. He was supposed to be avoiding Elizabeth - not riding to her home like a knight of yore seeking to rescue the damsel in distress. (And especially not when the knight himself required rescuing from his own stupid loneliness!) The voice ordered him to stay safely secluded in the library, far away from the whiles of a beguiling seductress such as Elizabeth Bennet. Yet the idea was rather tempting. Had Elizabeth changed since the last time he saw her? _Changed? _Darcy nearly slapped himself. _She cannot have changed in two days! _

Women were put on this earth to turn men's heads any which way they pleased, and to distract them from every sensible course; but Darcy would not allow himself to be swayed. _This woman, this charming…ravishing… _Darcy inwardly sighed and tried again. _This woman, _he admonished, _has for the past month made you more the fool than you have ever been, and you have allowed it! _The prudent little voice repeated this chastisement over and over, until Darcy had almost convinced himself that there was no need to go to Longbourn at all. But then an image of Elizabeth, with her dark locks of hair, shining eyes, and gloriously enchanting smile crossed his mind, and Darcy found himself more confused than ever.

A subtle cough interrupted his thoughts. Darcy quickly turned and saw Bingley, who had been waiting for quite a while, awkwardly twiddling his thumbs and waiting for permission to speak. Darcy's next words were beyond his control as they tripped suddenly over his tongue and plummeted out of his mouth. "I suppose I can spare a few hours." _Blast it! _

"You'll come?" Bingley's mouth upturned into a wide smile. "That's fantastic! Thank you, Darcy!"

"I, ah - " Darcy was completely overcome with shock at his continually lessening amount of self-control. So much so that he barely found himself capable of speech. Only after a deep, throat-clearing cough Darcy managed to utter, "H-Happy to do it, B-Bingley."

Bingley's happy face slowly twisted with worry. "Darcy, are you alright? You're st - "

"Stuttering, stuttering, I know!" His sudden roar had caused Bingley to leap back some feet, and Darcy was immediately repentant. After all, Bingley was not to blame for his occasional - very, _very _occasional - habit of stuttering when he was especially unsettled or nervous. Darcy said with all the gentleness he could muster, "Forgive me, Bingley." Knowing him to be sincere, Bingley accepted his friend's apology with a solemn nod. Darcy returned the nod with one of his own, then quietly returned to his chamber to don his riding clothes.

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><p>Hyperion missed the beautiful, wide-open grounds at Pemberley. Darcy had had his horse brought down from his Derbyshire estate almost immediately after his arrival, and at this moment Hyperion most certainly did not appreciate the favor. The land surrounding Netherfield satisfied him well enough, regardless of its lacking the great challenge Derbyshire's hills and valleys presented him, but the busy Meryton streets Hyperion absolutely abhorred. 'Twas far too crowded for his taste. Darcy patted the horse on its neck, commiserating with the poor equine. Social phenomenon that he was, Bingley had wished to stop at Meryton en route to Longbourn, so that he could make his rounds, greeting all the people with a jovial smile constantly at the ready. Meanwhile, on the farthest possible end of the societal spectrum was Darcy, who in truth would never go out of his way to converse with anyone - let alone <em>everyone! <em>- in near proximity to him. Never had he sought those 'polite exchanges' he so dreaded every single time he found himself in a large group. He had been so preoccupied fretting over the probability of a wrong word or a slip of the tongue escaping him, that he never had time to comprise any conversational topics beyond the words 'hello' and 'good bye.' Yes, he and Bingley were most definitely opposites. But still, they were the best of friends.

Just as they were ending a particularly dreadful exchange with a shopkeeper about his 'fascinating' window displays, Bingley elbowed Darcy sharply in the ribs. "Gah! Blast it, Bingley!"

Bingley only nodded his chin toward the far end of the street and cried, "Darcy, look!" Darcy turned his head in the direction of Bingley's nod, and beheld - albeit from afar - sweet Elizabeth…

_Simply average _Elizabeth, he meant...

But Lord, she was so sweet to look upon, even from so many yards away. Without a moment's hesitation, Darcy galloped in her direction, Bingley following close behind. What would she be wearing? Would her hair be up, or down, falling about her shoulders in heavenly curls? Had she been walking? A vision of Elizabeth the morning she walked to Netherfield, with her pink cheeks and her raspy breath as her chest moved up and down, flooded his mind and conquered his every sense. He could neither see nothing, nor hear nothing beyond his own tempting imaginations as he rode swiftly towards the group.

Then Darcy suddenly stopped and allowed Bingley to proceed him. He may be a bit lonely, but Fitzwilliam Darcy was no mooncalf; and he would not be seen chasing Elizabeth like some kind of overly aroused mongrel. In fact, he would not deign to look upon Elizabeth at all. Solitude was a simple feeling to overcome, he told himself; and if he had to suffer through some desolation for a time, then so be it. He would stare at Hyperion's hooves if he must, so long as he was protected from an unsuitable attachment.

Darcy pulled his horse to a stop next to Bingley's mount, and immediately proceeded with his new plan: Avoid Elizabeth at All Costs. His first step was to glance at everyone but her. On the far right stood Miss Mary Bennet; next to her was a man unfortunately large in both length and width whom he had never seen before; then came Miss Lydia and Miss Kitty, each of them on the arm of an officer Darcy vaguely recalled being introduced to; then Miss Jane, who was smiling prettily at Bingley. Darcy briskly lowered his head the moment he spotted Elizabeth's dainty shoulder in the corner of his eye. Only after his gaze passed over the tips of the little lavender slippers that peeped out from under Elizabeth's gown did Darcy lift his head once more in order to ascertain if there were more present with the Bennet party.

And Darcy beheld his worst nightmare.

George Wickham.

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><p>Staring directly into the icy eyes of his childhood friend, Darcy's jaw clenched and his face burned with fury. For a moment, Darcy believed himself to be trapped once more in a Wickham induced nightmare - or perhaps he was trapped in the same one from last night! But no. Though he very often lost track of his mind's wanderings, Darcy knew very well when he dreamed and when he did not. This was the real, living George William Anthony Wickham - though, to his shame, Darcy sometimes wished the man dead. He had the same brownish-red red hair, the same sharp nose, the same damn blasted smile. And he was looking at Darcy the exact same way he had some twelve years ago. 'Twas a look, Darcy realized as he caught sight of Elizabeth's hand on the man's arm, of victory.<p>

_It had been in the year 1801…Ireland had only just recently come to unite with the country by the Act of Union…_

_It was quite clear to all that many of the Irish were suffering that winter, and Darcy's mother, the beautiful Anne Darcy, had expressed a desire to help those less fortunate. His father had suggested they send food and blankets by some of the servants, but Mother had insisted that they go on the charitable expedition themselves. Her exceptional beauty was equal only to her generosity, and Darcy had always admired her for that. _

_"William, we could make it into a trip!" Mrs. Darcy implored her husband. "You, me, and Will, along with the servants! You must admit, we could all use a respite; and the timing is convenient, seeing as Will has just finished the Michaelmas Half at Eton." William Darcy put an affectionate arm around his wife. "I will not allow my wife and only son," Father returned with a gesture toward the young Master Fitzwilliam who sat in front of him, "to endanger themselves unnecessarily, and furthermore, I - " _

_"There will be no danger in it!" Mother cried, sounding almost appalled at his husband's lack of faith in her. "Do you think I would knowingly put my child at risk? And I assure this is most necessary! There are poor, helpless people in Ireland dying of starvation, and we can be of so much help to them. There are multiple missionaries already supporting their cause!" Here his father mentioned that most of those missionaries sought to convert the Irish rather than feed them, but Mrs. Darcy paid that no mind. With her small, pearly white hands held together, and her grief stricken eyes gazing upward toward heaven, Darcy's mother looked every bit the saint. Indeed, all Anne Darcy lacked was a halo to complete the beatific picture. And who was her husband to refuse the request of an angel? However, Mr. Darcy had still remained unfixed on the idea of sending the young Fitzwilliam along, causing the angelic Mrs. Darcy to transmute once more into a rather argumentative wife. "What do you mean he cannot go? Fitzwilliam is sixteen years old - are you not, Will?" Not feeling very comfortable residing in the middle of an argument, Will nodded silently. "Just so. He is sixteen years old - practically a man! - and I think he is ready to take on some extra responsibility. _

_"Besides," Mother went on, returning to her sweet, pleading tone, "I hardly ever see Will these days - is that not so, Will?" Another nod. "Exactly my point. He is always away at Eton or busying himself in the library, and I cannot remember the last time we spent true quality time together! It would be so nice for us to do some charity work together, would it not? For us to help the less fortunate together? Will, you would like to go to Ireland?" Though he did not really desire any expedition that would leave him bereft of a library, he had no wish of disappointing his mother, and therefore nodded once more and replied in his voice which was remarkably deep for a teenage boy that he should be delighted. "You see?" Mother turned to Father with a heart-warming smile. "Come, William. It's for an excellent cause." _

_Mr. Darcy then sighed and ran his hand through the dark hair his son had inherited from him before replying, "Very well…But-!" Father added in before Mother could jump and shout in exultation, " - I will stay here with Georgie, for surely you cannot be thinking of dragging a four-year-old girl across the marshes and bogs of Ireland?" Though it was a question, it had purposely come across like a command. "And," Father continued, "as an extra benefit to yourselves, if I am gone you two will have nothing to interrupt your 'true quality time together.' "_

_"Erm, Father," Darcy awkwardly interjected as he stood from his seat, "might it be possible that I could…bring George along?" It was not that he hadn't cared to spend time with his mother. But to spend so much time __alone__ with her…_

_"George?" his father said as he musingly rubbed his chin. "Yes, I don't see why not." _

_"Oh, Will!" Mother cried. _

_"Come, Anne," Father placed a comforting hand on his wife's shoulder, "you did say yourself that Will is a man now. A man needs men's company."_

_His mother then proceeded to huff and puff for a bit, until she was composed enough to give her son a faux aggravated look. "Alright, very well," she sighed as she began to exit the room, "I'll let George gallivant about Ireland with you, while I get the real work done." And then with a teasing smile and a twinkle in her eye, she turned and added, "You would have mucked it all up, anyway." _

_Weeks later, Mrs. Darcy, Fitzwilliam Darcy, and George Wickham, along with the servants - more than twenty of which were unneeded, but had been brought nonetheless as an extra precaution, - found themselves on the shores of a small little Irish town by the name of Malloy. Darcy could distinctly remember how much he had loved the sights, the sounds, even the smells of Ireland. As they entered the town he simply stood by a rocky incline breathing in the fresh sea air, while his mother had cried that if he hurt himself she would not be to blame and George complained of seasickness. _

_"We shall stay here for a time," Mother yelled loudly enough so that the boys who lagged behind could hear, "and then work our way north! Let's stop at this home!" They then approached a small, dilapidated cottage, with rickety steps which led to a crooked door and filthy window. Mother knocked at the door. _

_The sound of footsteps could be heard, followed by a shout of, "*Ag teacht!" The door opened to reveal a young girl, likely near the age of fifteen, with hair black as night and eyes, one might say, as green as a clover. Darcy smiled kindly at the lovely girl before him, not quite sure how else to greet a pretty young woman; and George, who had been busying himself by impassively kicking a rock about in the grass, was instantly at attention. The girl stood in the open doorway with her mouth agape, no doubt shocked and confused by their lavish clothing, and for a time said nothing at all. Only after seeing Mrs. Darcy's and her son's kind smiles did she gain the courage to turn and bellow into the darkness beyond her, "*Máthair! Roinnt strainséiri!" _

_Then came to the door a large, rotund woman with jovial red cheeks whom Darcy rightly assumed was the pretty girl's mother. The woman instantly recognized them as being English, and with a somewhat bewildered smile said, "Good mornin', missus. Sirs. Might we be helpin' ya?"_

_"Rather," his mother said in her sweetest of voices, "we are here to help you. May we come in?" _

_After some hesitation the woman answered, "Aye...of course." _

_"Thank you. My name is Mrs. Darcy, but you may call me Anne if you like."_

_The woman's cheeks brightened even more at his mother's unexpected gesture of friendship, and returned the civility with a large smile. "Oh, I am Mrs. Dingle. But you may call me Máire, of course. And this is my daughter, Kaitlin." Kaitlin's green eyes flashed with pride upon her being recognized, and she lifted her ragged skirts so that she could bend into a small curtsy. _

_"This is my son, Fitzwilliam," Mother returned, placing a loving hand behind his back, "and this is…" She turned around to stare at her other travel companion, and thought for a moment. "Well, we think of him as a son also, and his name is George." _

_Kaitlin lifted her gaze to the two boys and said, "Fitzwilliam and George," accompanied by another curtsy. _

_Of all the families Mrs. Darcy assisted, the Dingles were among their favorites. The three of them came each day to the tiny cottage - Mrs. Darcy seeking to help dear Máire Dingle, and Fitzwilliam and George seeking the smiles of the beguiling Kaitlin. Not that Darcy noticed George's similar feelings toward the young girl. He was far too entranced by the young Irish lady to notice much beyond her. _

_"Is she not lovely, George?" he asked his companion one day as they sat near a ridge overlooking the ocean. The girl in question was twirling about in circles, her curly hair flying in the wind._

_"Yes," George replied, Darcy too naive to catch the word's suggestive tone. "Yes, she is very lovely."_

_The Darcys (plus one Wickham) stayed in Malloy longer than was expected. And each day Darcy began to stare more and more at Kaitlin Dingle, with her beautifully long black hair and fascinating eyes, whilst Wickham ravenously surveyed her from afar. Oddly enough, Darcy had seen it all, had observed the look in his friend's eyes and the devious curl of his mouth, and thought nothing of it. _

_Until their last day in Malloy. _

_Their last day in Ireland altogether. _

_Mother had begun to feel increasingly ill as they neared the end of their stay in Malloy. The chill of the winter and the exertion of her work was threatening to overcome her, but she had not shown a single sign of her exasperation until their very last of the good byes. Just as the the Dingle household had been their first to visit, it was their last to leave. _

_"Dear Máire!" his mother exclaimed upon the lady's opening the door. Her cheery voice was unusually breathless. _

_"Anne, my darlin'! Are ya alright?" _

_"Yes, of course, it was just a… it was just a…long walk here."_

_"No, you are not alright!" Mrs. Dingle insisted. "Coom inside with me." _

_"I-I came to say my…" Mother's body began to droop, and her skin turned paler than the moon. "I came to say…good bye." Mrs. Darcy's chest heaved once…then a second time… _

_Suddenly her eyes rolled back and she collapsed into her son's arms. _

_"*Mo Dhia!" Mrs. Dingle cried with her hands on her cherry cheeks. "Get 'er inside, quickly!" _

_Panic-stricken, shocked and afraid, Darcy stood traumatized for a moment. Then he ran through the crooked cottage door and carried his mother's frail body to the dirty cot Mrs. Dingle indicated. Frail? Mother had never been frail. Not his dear, sweet, fiercely strong and willful mother. _

_Once his mother had been laid on the cot, Mrs. Dingle instantly began to work at reviving her. She tapped Mother's face, rubbed her hands, shook her entire body, but to no avail. "Oh dear, she's out cold! And, Mo Dhia, she's burnin' up! Kaitlin! Kaitlin, we need ya! Quickly!" No answer. The woman called for her daughter many times more, but the raven-haired girl did not come. "Kaitlin Sylvanie Dingle, why do ya never coom when I call ya?" Mrs. Dingle sobbed as she nervously began rubbing the hands of her unconscious benefactor once more._

_Darcy gave his mother a quick kiss on her burning forehead and stood. "I'll fetch her." _

_"She must be in the barn!"_

_Darcy nodded and ran directly to the barn. It was not so much a barn, rather it was a one-stalled milking shed, with a crooked door and filthy window almost identical to those that graced the cottage. Not wishing to waste any time, Darcy approached the filthy window and briskly wiped the grime off with his sleeve. _

_Beyond the faint layer of dirk and scum, Darcy saw with a shock the man he thought to be his friend bent over a pile of straw, with the young, green-eyed minx below him. George was ravaging Kaitlin's mouth, with his tongue practically down her throat and his bear hands pulling at her rags. The walls were thin enough so that he could hear their hot, raspy breaths, their despicable chuckles. "Oh, George…" Kaitlin sighed as she began to undo the buttons of his waist coat. Darcy felt the rage sink into his body the moment his teeth began to grind. His mother could have very well been near death's door, and George had snuck away to 'lay' in a mountain of straw. Lay with Kaitlin. Darcy forced himself to swallow his fury and think of his mother. He had to return to Mother, Kaitlin didn't really matter. His mother and her health were all that was important. _

_Just as Darcy was about to leave, George turned and spotted Darcy through the grimy window. And his smile was one of sheer victory. _

_Darcy's jaw clenched and his hands began to curl into fists, but before he could crash wildly through the wall (and then through Wickham's sorry face!) he turned and ran back to the cottage. _

_Upon returning to the dark room with the dirty cot, Darcy saw that his mother was now revived, but she was muttering incomprehensible words and flailing about madly. "She's come to!" Mrs. Dingle cried once he entered. "But she has such a high fever that she's actin' stark ravin' mad!" Darcy ran to his mother's side, knelt down, and took one of her flailing hands in his. _

_Mrs. Dingle looked at the empty doorway, then back at him in confusion. "Where's Kaitlin?"_

_"Uhm, I - " There was no point in upsetting such a sweet lady by telling her what was really occurring in the barn. "I - I couldn't find her." _

_Mrs. Dingle released a frustrated huff. "Faith and begorrah, I can never seem to find that girl! I'll have to fetch a wet rag myself. You're mother's burnin' like a field set ablaze!" _

_As Mrs. Dingle scurried away to get the wet rag, Darcy held his mother's chin in his hands and turned her face to his. "Mother?"_

_"I don't want…I don't…George didn't…have to…come…"_

_"Mother!" He leaned in closer to his mother's sweat-drenched face. "Mother, it's Fitzwilliam."_

_Mother's pretty blue eyes fluttered open. "…Will?" Recognition began to sweep into her features._

_"Yes, Mother, I'm right here."_

_"Mmm hmm…" Mother sleepily let her head rest against her son's cheek as she closed her eyes once more. Charity work had certainly taken it's toll on her. _

_With a pang of guilt Darcy realized: he should have been better to his mother. All this time he had ignored her, left her to work alone while he goggled at some Irish beauty. Just as he had ignored her these many years. _

_"Mother?…You hardly ever see me these days…Is that not so, Mother?" With a smile so slight it was almost eerily imperceptible, Mother nodded. "I'm always off at Eton…or stowed away in the library…am I not, Mother?" Another nod. Despite Darcy's anxiety, a breathy chuckle escaped him. "Just so._

_"But I promise, Mother…I'll never neglect you again."_

_By the time Mrs. Dingle returned with the wet rag, Darcy's mother had returned to her tossing and turning and flailing about. Darcy himself took the rag, and lovingly dabbed his mother's hot forehead, whispering to her that all would be well and they would be back at Pemberley soon. _

_Three hours later she was gone._

_Darcy knew the exact moment when she left him. It was the last time he would ever cry. _

_With a last rub of his nose against hers and a soft kiss on her cheek, Darcy stood and looked upon his mother's lifeless figure. By appearance, Anne Darcy looked as beautiful and saintly as ever. But one could tell that only now was the woman truly at peace. "She must truly be an angel now," her son whispered. _

_"Yes, she must be," said a voice from within the shadows._

_Darcy turned to see Wickham leaning against the wall, the same smug smile that so signified him spread widely across his face. _

_"You must have…__satisfied__ yourself very well while a woman you loved laid dying," Darcy growled. _

_George laughed as he edged nearer to him. "Yes, I did, thank you." As he approached, Wickham's eyes cravenly avoided the pale figure on the cot. "Though I didn't love Mama Darcy much, you know. She was your mother, not mine. And she was far too…fierce. I could never fathom how a jolly fellow like your papa managed to become shackled down to such a…harpy!"_

_Darcy grabbed at Wickham's throat and slammed him into wall, a hard fist ready to strike the man who dare insult his mother. "If you say a word against her - "_

_"You wouldn't lay a hand on me." _

_As much as Darcy wanted to contradict those mocking eyes and confident smile, Wickham was right. For some inconceivable reason, he could not find it in his heart to hurt the bastard. So he slowly released his hand from it's place around Wickham's neck. "Thank you," George rasped as he fixed his disheveled coat. _

_Darcy took a deep breath, and attempted to act the gentleman. One of them had to be a gentleman, and it certainly would not be Wickham. If he would have to be the one to put aside his pride and endure - without the satisfaction of tearing Wickham apart limb by limb - then so be it. "Where is Kaitlin?" he asked, his tones more neutral now. _

_Wickham laughed and lit a small cigar he'd retrieved from his pocket. "Why the devil should I care?" He then turned to leave, almost seeming to disappear in the clouds of smoke he puffed from his cigar; but then he turned back, finally condescending to look at the body of the woman who'd practically raised him. _

_The heathen only raised the tattered blanket so that it covered the dear corpse's face. "I hate to see the dead." And with that he left._

_Fitzwilliam Darcy was suddenly hopelessly confused. He knew not what he would do, how we would live, who would fill the gaping hole in his life caused by his mother's death._

_Only one thing had been made certain that day. _

_He and George were friends no longer._

* * *

><p><em>Years later, things had gone from bad to worse...<em>

_William Darcy had become thoroughly depressed by the loss of his wife, and had soon developed the habit of imbibing far more spirits than he should. _

_Thus explaining the contents of his will. _

_" 'To George William Anthony Wickham a legacy of one thousand pounds…and the living of the rectory at Kympton'?" Darcy had abandoned the glass of imported brandy his father had offered him and stared in disbelief at the Last Will and Testament of William Anthony Leander Darcy._

_"The boy's my namesake, after all," Father mumbled as he drained yet another glass. "And my godson."_

_"Wickham?…A clergyman? Father, the closest Wickham has ever come to being religious is when he's said the Lord's name in vain. I wouldn't be surprised if he were a devil worshiper!"_

_"Nonsense! The boy's gone to church!"_

_"A mere __few__ services, and at every one of them he's done nothing but sleep and flirt!" _

_"Fitzwilliam!" Father lifted his bloodshot eyes to glare at his son. "You should be ashamed of yourself. Debasing the man who was your closest friend in childhood, and also a favorite of your father… You should be happy for George, and for what he shall inherit once I'm gone. The living is only recommended for George to inherit, anyway. Now sign the bloody thing so that I'll have a witness."_

_The impending conversation was one of the most uncomfortable moments of Darcy's life: standing in his father's gloomy bedroom, looking the man in his steely, blood-shot eyes, and finally revealing to him what a fiend his golden boy was. _

_"Father," he began in a cautious manner, "George Wickham…is not a man to be trusted. Please listen to me when I assure you that he is the not the proper man for the job." No reply. "…I don't trust him, Father." _

_Darcy's father slowly set down his empty glass and stood unsteadily in front of his son. "You've always been jealous of George," Father sneered. "He's a good fellow, and he'll have the rectory!" _

_"Father, please, try to understand - !" _

_"Understand?" his father had echoed with incredulity. "Understand, he says! You are the boy, and I am the man! You shall be the one understanding me! I need not listen to you!" _

_"Perhaps!" the boy growled in a most manly manner. " *'But if I am young, and right, what does my age matter?' "_

_"Do not plague me with your damn blasted literature! Perhaps if you had put the books aside for one moment, you would have turned out like him!"_

_"Like whom?" _

_"George!" Father screamed. "George! Why couldn't you have been more like George? Handsome, charming, engaging, lively!"_

_Darcy could scarcely believe his ears. "Are you actually saying you want me to be like __him__?" _

_"HE DIDN'T MURDER HIS MOTHER!" _

_Darcy could only utter a single word. "…What?"_

_"It was your fault she died!" his father cried, his voice half a scream, half a sob. "It was __your__ fault! 'Oh yes, Mother, I would love to go to Ireland!' What the devil were you thinking? And then you didn't even look after her! Why weren't you there to help her?…I trusted you!" With one swift motion, William Darcy sent all the liquor bottles on his shelf crashing to the ground. Then he turned to his son once more, his eyes bulging from their sockets, and his face red with both drink and pure animal rage. "You are no son at all!…George Wickham will be the rector, and he'll be a damned good one!…And then he'll send you're soul to hell where it belongs!" _

_Father then fell to the ground in a fit of hysterical crying such as no one had ever seen before. It looked as though the man's heart had just been torn from his chest. But his son was too infuriated to pity him. When he finally spoke, Fitzwilliam Darcy's tone was cold and vicious, his emotions so overcoming him that his tongue felt thick and heavy. "I - I - I would rather s - s - spend the r - rest o - of my d - d - days in __hell__ than s - stay here another m - m - minute. Good bye, F - Father." _

_His father abruptly lifted his tear-stained face. "Wait," he whispered. "Son! I didn't mean - !"_

_But he was already gone. _

_Hours later, Darcy was informed that his father had died on his bedroom carpet, his bloodshot eyes wide-open, and the sides of his face encrusted in dry tears._

* * *

><p><em>A letter from London arrived two months later, addressed to Fitzwilliam Darcy, Esquire, from Mr. George Wickham:<em>

_"Dearest Fitzwilliam Darcy,_

_ " 'Esquire' you are, indeed; or so I assume by the contents of your previous letter. Now that the old fellow is dead, you will have the entire estate. I congratulate you. You were always the fortunate one. I thank you for informing me of the inheritance gifted to me by your late father. I will with all gratitude accept the thousand pounds left to me as a legacy, but the living I regret I must decline; for the rectory is no line of work for a man of my sorts. I have taken an interest in the Law; an interest which could be easily funded if I were to be given the value of the living which I have inherited. As you no doubt know, I am in London visiting with friends and cannot make my ways to Pemberley at this time. I shall wait on you for further direction._

_ "Most Devotedly,_

_Your Ever Humble and Obedient Servant,_

_George Wickham."_

_Darcy's reply was a brief note, declaring his consent to granting Wickham the value of the Kympton living. He would be given the thousand pound legacy, in addition to the value of the living, which was worth three thousand pounds. The only reason for his acceptance of the proposal had been Darcy's wish to kick the troublesome bastard out of his life forever; for he hoped rather than believed the man to be sincere in his interest in the Law. _

_He didn't hear from Wickham that year or the next; and for a time, Darcy had actually believed that he would never hear a word from Wickham again. _

_Three years after the writing of the first letter, a second had arrived:_

_"My dearest Fitzwilliam Darcy,_

_ "It seems as though the funds you were so gracious as to condone my receiving have become exhausted. My circumstances, I assure you, are very bad. It is my solemn duty to inform you of my ascertaining that the Law is not a suitable area of study for a man of my sorts. However, I have heard of the decease of the former incumbent of the Kympton living, and am now fully prepared to accept the position of rector, a title which - as you well know, I am sure - I rightly deserve. I plan to be ordained as soon as the living is offered to me - and I believe I rightly assume when I say that you have no other than I to provide for, nor do you have another of your late father's wishes to grant. I shall, again, wait on you for further direction. _

_"Your Servant,_

_George Wickham."_

_He had lost it all gambling, no doubt. And drinking, and whoring, and all the like. Under no such circumstances, Darcy told himself, would he even think of allowing this man to become a clergyman. He valued his religion too highly for that. But how to put his feelings in words? Words that would not incline Wickham to seek justice on the dueling field, preferably. One of them, he reminded himself once more, had to be the gentleman. _

_"Brother, are you terribly distressed by your letter?"_

_"Hmm? No, Georgie, not at all." _

_Georgie stared at him with puzzlement. "You look distressed to me. Is the person who wrote you acted very…disagreeably towards you?"_

_He had not told her from whom the letter was sent, and had no intention to tell her. Nevertheless he answered, "Yes, Georgie, I suppose he is."_

_"Well, why not give him the cut direct? I would hate to go on conversing with someone I didn't care for." _

_Darcy smiled, marveling at the little treasure that was his sister. Every day of his guardianship of her, he had begun to realize more and more what a strong, intelligent woman his Georgie was becoming. Just like their mother. "For a girl of fourteen, you are one the cleverest people I know, Georgie." Then he rose from the breakfast table and went posthaste to the writing desk in the sitting room, so that he could follow his little sister's wise advice directly. _

_Why should he go on communicating with the scoundrel any longer? If he wanted to cut him, he could cut him, to hell with the fact that it was informal to do so in writing. He was now a man with great responsibilities - to his sister, his tenants, to Pemberley. And those responsibilities drove him to act more the man then he ever had before. _

_"Sir,_

_ "I regret to inform you that your request for the aforementioned living had been denied. (Remember that your inheritance of the living at Kympton was strictly __recommended__ in my late father's will.) You may consider the position occupied. I must request that any future acquaintance or connection between us be severed forthwith._

_"Fitzwilliam Darcy."_

* * *

><p><em>In technicality, Wickham granted his request. Darcy received no letters or visits from him, and for years all contact between them seemed truly dissolved.<em>

_Wickham's relationship with Georgie, however, was renewed. _

_Just last summer, Georgiana had gone with her previous governess Mrs. Younge on a holiday in Ramsgate…_

_As much as Darcy would have liked to accompany his sister on her trip, he had insisted that there was far too much to occupy him at home; he was sure that she and Mrs. Younge would have a marvelous time. Yet to his great surprise, all estate business had been settled long before Georgie was scheduled to return home. So why not surprise his sister and join her at her summer home?_

_Little had he known what he would find there._

_Immediately upon his arrival in Ramsgate, Darcy cheerfully bounded up the staircase of the summer house. "Georgie?" he called. He thought he heard some noise from behind the sitting room door. "Georgie, it's William!" With a merrily excited heart, Darcy hurriedly opened the door, his arms already prepared to happily embrace his little sister. _

_Georgie did not look very pleased to see him. As the door opened Darcy saw that her hands were over her mouth in a semblance of horror, and her skin was as white as a linen sheet. "William…" she whispered. Then with one breath her words began to heedlessly fumble out of her mouth. "William, I didn't know what I was doing! I should have told you everything, but he said it would not be wise - he said that you would separate us! But I felt horrible deceiving you so, and I can't go on much longer! William, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" _

_As Georgie's eyes began to water, Darcy folded her into his arms, allowing her tears to be spilt forth on his overcoat. "What's happened, Georgie?" he whispered against his sister's golden blond hair. _

_"He was so kind to me," Georgie sobbed. "He told me of how dear I was to him during childhood…And when he professed his love for me, I requited it. Then he proposed that we…elope. I wanted your approval, Brother, truly I did. But George assured me that you would never accept our love. Mrs. Younge offered to plan our elopement, and - "_

_"Georgie…of what George are we speaking?" he asked, though he was fairly certain of her answer. _

_"…George Wickham."_

_He would kill him. He would kill him! No, he would cut off his arms and legs and have them as wall trophies, __then__ he would kill him! Taking advantage of a teenage girl naiveté, misleading her with false promises of love. And 'twas not just any girl. This was Georgiana Darcy, daughter of the man who had loved and cared for him like one of his own!_

_"Brother," Georgie stumbled meekly away from him, "please allow me to - "_

_"Later, Georgie. We'll discuss this once we've reached Pemberley."_

_"Pemberley?" His sister's fear of the no doubt murderous look in his eyes left her uncharacteristically quiet. "But…Brother…"_

_"Georgiana," he warned her in a low voice. Georgie whimpered and ran to the furthest corner of the room. _

_Truly it was not her fault, Darcy thought with a pang of remorse. She was a young girl with a large heart…what else would she have done? Wickham was the one at true fault, along with the soon-to-be unemployed Mrs. Younge. Actually, he thanked God with most humble gratitude, they were both quite lucky he had arrived in time. Darcy approached his sister, slowly enough so as to give himself time to control his temper. Once in front of her, he kissed Georgie's moist eyes, and held her once more. "Thank you for telling me, Georgie. I'll have the carriage made ready to return us both to Pemberley."_

_"But, William," she whispered, her voice barely audible now, "he still loves me…"_

_Damn him. Damn Wickham for forcing a man to break his little girl's heart. "He never loved you, Georgie. Most likely, when he sought your affections, he was seeking wealth." And revenge, he refrained from adding. _

_"No!" Georgie cried in horror. "No, that can't be! He said…" But as Georgiana's eyes filled with realization, they were overcome with more tears. _

_"Shhhhh…" Darcy crooned as he held her tighter. "He doesn't deserve you, darling."_

_After his sister's cries subsided, Darcy wrote a note to Wickham, informing the brute that he knew all of what had occurred; and that unless he desired pistols at dawn, he had best leave Ramsgate at once, and never intrude upon his sister again. Inquiries confirmed that he was gone within the hour. Then Mrs. Younge, an old friend of Wickham's who had all the while been conspiring with him, was immediately discharged from her position as Georgiana's governess, assured that her things possessions would be sent to her directly._

_These things may have been achieved satisfactorily, but Georgiana had yet to retrieve that liveliness and good humor which had so reflected their late mother's. Her guilt turned her gloomy, and her silly actions kept her often silent. It was as though George Wickham's goal in life was to slowly rip the souls out of everything and everyone he most cared for…_

* * *

><p>And now there the bastard was, with Elizabeth on his arm.<p>

Darcy knew not how, but he would not allow Wickham to injure another loved one. Though Elizabeth lacked the birth and social graces suitable for the mistress of Pemberley, Darcy admittedly cared a great deal for the lady. Somehow, some way, he would protect her.

Without breaking his victorious look, Wickham had the audacity to tip his hat at Darcy in a most gentlemanly manner. Darcy barely returned the gesture, all the while thinking how lovely it would be to beat Wickham senseless with that damned hat. But one of them had to be the gentleman, he thought, repeating the long utilized phrase yet again. And, blast it all, it would have to be him.

The conversation between Bingley and the other Bennets went on, all of it indiscernible over the seething hum of fury pulsating in Darcy's ears, until at last:

"Well, we must be going then," Bingley sighed with almost tangible disappointment. "We wouldn't want to intrude upon you all any longer. Good day, ladies! Mr. Collins, Mr. Wickham: a pleasure to meet you both."

Darcy's only farewell was a curt nod.

* * *

><p><em>* "Coming!"<em>

_* "Mother! Some strangers!"_

_*"My God!"_

_* A quote from Antigone by Sophocles._


	9. Chapter 9

_Author's Note: Once again this author must thoroughly apologize for her inexcusable tardiness in publishing the next chapter of this story. I assure you that Mr. Darcy's dreams, and your enjoyment of them, mean more to me than can possibly be described. I hope this was worth the wait! _

* * *

><p>Chapter IX<p>

At the Touch of a Hand

On Thursday afternoon Darcy was blessedly left to his own devices.

Bingley had gone to Longbourn, having wished to present to the Bennets a personal invitation to the ball he'd planned to throw the following Tuesday, and he had somehow induced Caroline and Louisa to accompany him. Mr. Hurst, Darcy supposed, was either drinking, eating, or napping. Or perhaps all three. Not that it really mattered. Darcy was blissfully alone, and now he could finally be at some sort of peace - or if not peace, at least a mild relaxation. He had been increasingly on edge for the past two days, ever since the moment he saw Wickham in Meryton.

Darcy harbored no doubts that the only reason Bingley's sisters had conceded to the trip to Longbourn was that he had driven them absolutely batty with his recently agitated manner. He had been so jittery of late that he could not manage to keep still; he had no choice but to pace across the room at regular intervals of the day in order to keep from exploding in a fit of pure madness. On the one hand, Darcy held a strong sense of obligation to the people of Meryton, and everyone within a twenty mile radius of George Wickham for that matter. If there was anyone called to expose the scoundrel as a danger to all mankind, it would of course have to be him.

And why?

Because he was the only one who knew the truth, damn blast it all.

But they wouldn't believe him. Or even if they did believe him, it would be most unwillingly. No one would credit the tale that the charming, agreeable Mr. Wickham was anything but the greatest man alive - especially when told so by Fitzwilliam Darcy, who was not at all agreeable, let alone charming. By God, not even his own father had listened to him! There was nothing for Darcy to do but keep quiet, hope that Wickham would not cause too much mischief, and disregard the potent feeling of guilt brewing in his breast.

On the other hand, Darcy was deeply overwrought by an emotion far more troublesome than obligation or guilt.

It was jealousy.

Jealousy of the romantic kind.

A vision of Wickham on the day Darcy had met him in Meryton, with Elizabeth's perfect gloved hand draped affectionately on his arm, continued to haunt him without rest. And as a result Darcy's blood was ceaselessly smoldering with envy, causing his entire body to burn with such intense heat he would swear he'd gone on holiday in hell.

He would cause quite a scene should Wickham be in attendance at the Netherfield Ball. Darcy knew the limitations of his temper, and he was certain that another encounter with Wickham would force him to become the cause of either a broken nose or a seriously damaged ribcage on the bastard's part.

Darcy continued to think on these things as he strolled about the gardens of Netherfield until some hours later when Bingley appeared. "Darcy!" Bingley cried as he started on the stone pathway. He found Darcy pacing to and fro about the rose bushes. "Darcy, you old goose, I've been looking for you everywhere! Lord, how long have you been out here?"

Darcy opened his mouth to answer, but closed it when he realized he had no idea how long he'd been in the gardens. With great shock Darcy looked at the sky and realized it was nearing sunset and that there was a chill in the air. He had spent so much time brooding on the Wickham situation and, pitiably, with no results.

Then, an idea hit him.

"Bingley," Darcy said, completely ignoring Charles's previous question, "may I ask a favor of you?"

Bingley looked a bit nonplussed, but nonetheless replied, "Of course, Darcy, anything."

"Excellent. Now this may put you in a bit of an awkward position…" Here Darcy trailed off, suddenly unwilling to confess his thoughts.

Bingley waited only a moment before saying with a warm smile, "Darcy, you may tell me anything, ask anything of me. You know that, don't you? After all, what else are friends for?"

Darcy's hesitation quickly melted away under the power of Bingley's kindness, and after releasing a long breath he continued, "The gentleman we met in Meryton the other day, Mr. Wickham? I believe I have mentioned him to you before."

"Yes, an old acquaintance of yours, wasn't he? I don't believe you cared very much for him?"

"Indeed," Darcy bit off. There was no need to provide Bingley with any details on his past dealings with Wickham. "The man is now in Colonel Forster's regiment, is he not? And all of the regiment are invited to your ball next week, are they not?"

"Well, uhm, yes. And yes."

"I need you to renounce Wickham's invitation."

"Renounce? You mean…he's uninvited?"

Well, when it was put that way it sounded as though Bingley were being forced. Darcy made his voice soft and compliant as he replied, "Well of course it is your decision, Bingley, not mine. However it would be a great help to me if the man were not in attendance."

Bingley remained silent for a moment as he vigorously scratched his head, causing his carrot-colored hair to bounce about. "No, Darcy, that should be fine. I would be happy to do you any service after all you have done for me. But how should I 'renounce his invitation.' as you say?"

Darcy's usual slight upturn of the mouth turned into a full-fledged smile. "All you need do is request to Colonel Forster that George Wickham not be included in your invitations to the regiment. If there be any complications, then you can forget I ever said a word upon the subject."

"No problem, Darcy!" Bingley assured him with a smile that expressed how much he loved being relied upon. "There will be no complications because I will handle everything to perfection - I promise you!"

* * *

><p>The day of the ball soon approached, and Darcy had a sneaking suspicion that it would be an excellent evening. He was not sure if it was pure optimism that drove this feeling or the fact that it had rained beautifully for the past several days, but he simply had a feeling that something spectacular would happen that night.<p>

If Kendall would ever finish dressing him, Darcy thought. So far Kendall had only helped him don a pair of black breeches and a shirt. The rest of his ensemble had not even been chosen, and it was already nearing time to go downstairs. "Kendall, are you certain you're feeling well?"

"Perfectly fine, sir. Just a bit tired, sir." Surely Kendall was more than a bit tired. The man was moving at a snail's pace and he had not made a single taunting remark in the past hour. Such behavior was most uncharacteristic of the valet Darcy knew and loved.

"Kendall, I insist that you take the night off."

Kendall's already pale face went sheer white with horror. "That is certainly not necessary, sir! I am extremely well! B-Better than I've been years!"

Good God, Darcy thought with a smile, this man enjoyed his work far too much. "Get out and get rest, Kendall. I'll do well enough on my own. Besides, your health is far more important to me than any sopping ball."

For a moment Kendall hesitated, but he soon gave in and left the room with a grateful smile.

Darcy looked down at the various cravats laid out in front of him.

Oh Lord, he was on his own.

The thought was terrifying and at the same time exhilarating.

Darcy selected a simple white linen cravat and turned to stand in front of the large standing mirror. First he'd… No… If he crossed… No… Perhaps if he… No, that only wrinkled it…

This was harder than it looked.

As Darcy grabbed yet another white cravat and continued to make more failed tying attempts, his mind began to wander back to his premonitions on the impending night. Never in his life had Darcy ever looked forward to a ball, but suddenly he found himself tingling with anticipation of the enjoyment soon to come. _Exactly what enjoyment are you anticipating? _he asked himself. Heaven knew he had no particular appreciation of dancing, and socialization was a devil terror in and of itself.

_Elizabeth. _

Darcy was about to rebuke himself for allowing Elizabeth Bennet to invade his thoughts _yet again_, but he quickly stopped. Why not enjoy himself for one evening? Why not let his mind wander through whatever paths it pleased? After what was nearly a month spent avoiding temptation, he thought with a devilish smile, did he not deserve some reward?

Darcy looked up at his own reflection, and was surprised to see the largest smile to grace his face in months. Lord, was he looking forward to seeing Elizabeth! She would certainly be the life of the party, enchanting everyone with her charm and her wit. He would see her voluptuous figure spinning about the ballroom. She would smile with her full cherry red lips as her eyes lit with excitement. He prayed she'd save just one little smile for him.

Darcy's wonderings were suddenly interrupted by a triple knock on his dressing room door. "Are you decent, Darce?"

After a quick shake of his head to clear his thoughts, Darcy called, "Yes!" and Bingley quickly came striding into the room.

Bingley had not yet looked up at him because he was picking pieces of lint from his expertly tailored green coat. "Just came to tell you that there was no need to 'renounce' George Wickham's invitation at all. He's apparently gone to London on some important business and could not - Lord, Darcy, are you not dressed?"

"I…uh…" Why the devil did he feel as though he were naughty boy who wasn't ready for supper on time? "Kendall was feeling unwell, so I dismissed him for the night, and I…" Darcy waved about the rumpled cravat in explanation.

Bingley clearly didn't understand. "Well, what's the problem then?"

Darcy waved the cravat again. "I can't…It's…Oh, what the devil is it to you?"

Bingley heaved with laughter at Darcy's predicament, forcing him to speak between chuckles. "I'll…hehe…send…hehehe… I'll send Cremms in to help you right away."

"Cremms?" But Darcy had no time to protest, for Bingley was already out the door. Despite the fact that his friend was no doubt halfway down the hall by this time and wouldn't be able to hear him, Darcy bellowed at the closed door, "YOU DO KNOW YOUR VALET MOVES LIKE MOLASSES, DON'T YOU!" _And he scares the the devil out of me_, Darcy almost added.

Ten minutes later, the dry, wrinkled old Cremms toddled into the room. "Don't you worry, Mr. Darcy. I shall have you ready in a jiffy, sir."

_I doubt it…_

But Darcy's doubts were soon proven incorrect.

Cremms suddenly began moving at a speed beyond belief for a man of his age. The old geezer's back was suddenly straight as a board, and his feet no longer shuffled across the floor with every step. For a moment Darcy was beyond words as the valet efficiently scoured his wardrobe for the proper clothing, but he eventually found his voice and was able to mutter, "You are quite…energetic, Cremms."

"When I wish to be, sir. The black coat, sir?"

"…Yes," Darcy whispered, unable to keep the wonderment out of his voice.

"And may I suggest a white waistcoat? You'll look immaculate, sir."

Good Lord, even his words came out quickly! No mincing or mangling or muttering of words whatsoever! _Unbelievable… _ "Er, yes, Cremms, that should be excellent."

"Very good, sir." Faster than a bolt of lightning Cremms was at Darcy's side, tying a crisp white cravat around his neck with agility and ease. If Darcy had reacted a second too late he would have ended up strangled.

"Hold still, sir."

Darcy was a bit disgruntled at being ordered about, but nevertheless obeyed.

"And…perfect."

Cremms took a step back to admire his handiwork, allowing Darcy a view of the remarkably quick cravat tie in the mirror. "A Mathematical?"

Without a moment's hesitation Cremms answered, "Simple. Elegant."

"Well." He supposed that was true… "Alright then."

The apparently quite efficient little old valet then began to carefully assist Darcy into his waistcoat and coat. Darcy had remarkably become almost comfortable with the arrangement, and was soon able to return to his previously interrupted reverie. Heaven help him, he could not wait to see what Elizabeth would wear. Quickly his mind began to flood with imaginings about her apparel, most of them ungentlemanly in nature. He could not help but envision the feel, the smell of the fabric, or to wonder whether or not the gown would be lined with lace. Damn, but there was something seductive about lace. Darcy had never thought much on lace before, but he found it bloody provocative now.

Darcy was startled when Cremms suddenly chortled from behind him and said in a confidential tone, "Looking forward to tonight, sir?"

Did the man read minds, too? "Yes, Cremms, I am quite looking forward to it."

"Hmmph. Looking forward to that Miss Bennet is closer to the mark, is it not, sir?"

"Cremms!" He simply could not believe it. Damn him. Darcy almost walloped the man for his impudence.

Cremms responded by lifting his brows in a coaxing manner, challenging Darcy to contradict him.

Darcy sputtered for a few moments before realizing he was unable to formulate a single explanation other than, "Now see here…" That was it. He couldn't even finish the sentence.

Cremms only chuckled again and continued, "Well it surely isn't *that cow you're making dovey eyes over!"

"_THAT COW?_"

Cremms responded as if what he said were a matter of course. "The mistress, Miss Caroline Bingley! A cow if I ever saw one."

"You call your own mistress a _COW_, sir?" _Not that I disagree…_ Darcy shook himself and tried again, "You ought to be thrown out on the spot."

"Nonsense, the master loves my straightforward manner! He says so all the time! 'Cremms,' he says, 'I do love your straightforward manner.' Just those words, sir! And without an inkling of a trace of irony!"

Darcy's eyebrows shot up in amazement, then lowered in understanding. Bingley would. He just would say that sort of thing. "Well, I was unaware that I had asked your opinion on Miss Bingley's - "

"That's because you didn't ask my opinion. I gave it to you."

Darcy's mouth hung open in shock. He had never met a more outspoken, insolent servant in his entire life.

Cremms simply ignored Darcy's obvious state of disbelief and continued with his work. "Yes, Miss Elizabeth Bennet is a right pretty thing, sir. I suggest you snatch her while you can. Do something…impressive tonight. Something that will heighten her interest."

Without thinking - and without closing his mouth - Darcy nodded.

The impertinent valet gave him a cheeky smile that spread up to his gray eyes and made him almost look young. "Wonderful, sir. I'm sure you'll do famously. Now, my work is done here. All that is left is the donning of your boots, a task I'm sure you are capable of accomplishing on your own. Have an excellent night, sir." Cremms's back then returned to it's slouched position, and he began to slowly scrape his heavy feet toward the door.

Darcy nearly died of shock. But before he could he was able to mutter, "Do I look…handsome…for _her_, Cremms?" They both knew damn well who _her _was by now.

Cremms straightened again before smiling a wide, friendly smile at him. "Devilishly so, sir." Then with a quick wink the man returned to his hanging position and slid himself out.

For what seemed to be hours Darcy simply stared at his reflection in the mirror, unable to speak he was so utterly perplexed. Until finally the only words he could think of saying popped out of him.

"Strange man.

"Clever…

"But strange."

* * *

><p>Where the devil was she?<p>

Darcy had supposed that having such a large, rambunctious family meant that Elizabeth would not be the first to arrive, but now they would surely be the last of the last of the guests.

Darcy was pacing impatiently about a shadowed corridor - one that gave him a generous view of the entrance - when they finally arrived.

Miss Lydia and Miss Catherine were the first to enter, both hopping and squealing with excitement as they held each other's hands. Until they saw the officers, that is. Then Miss Lydia clung to one red coat and Miss Catherine to another. Then came Miss Mary Bennet, who looked quite grave indeed as she walked slowly to a corner near the matrons and spinsters. Then Mr. and Mrs. Bennet - Mr. Bennet appeared altogether too delighted as he attempted to smother his laughter in a way that much reminded Darcy of his daughter, while Mrs. Bennet appeared delighted at the number of young gentlemen in the room. Then Miss Jane, all smiles and good cheer as she kindly greeted those around her. Then - finally - Elizabeth.

Darcy stopped breathing. His heart caught in his throat in a way he had never believed possible as he took in the ravishing sight of Elizabeth, dressed in a gown the pure lightest of blues, with a lacy v-shaped neck line. Darcy's voice was half a whisper, half a groan, and deeper than it had ever been in the entire course of his life - and Darcy's voice was famous for its low tenor - when came from a deep, hollow place in his throat, "_Heaven and hell…_"

She entered the room pooled in light, whether from the glow of the candles or the glow of her radiance he honestly could not tell. She was unlike anything he had ever seen, ravishing beyond words, beyond thoughts. A single piece of her dark hair engrained with small white flowers hung over her shoulder and spiraled till it met the lowest point of the neckline of her gown. Of her _blue_ gown. With a _lace_ neckline.

He would never doubt the Lord's existence again.

Darcy turned his back against the wall in order to allow himself a moment to catch his breath - only then did he realize he had been holding it - and calm his violently thumping heart. She was _the most beautiful thing in the world_. He was certain of that fact. Lord, and she was adorable. Immediately upon entering the room she had stood on the tips of her toes so that she could look over the crush of people. Darcy couldn't help but hope that it was him she looked for.

And he wanted nothing more at that moment than to lose himself in her. Were gentlemen permitted to have such thoughts?

Yes, he decided. They were.

Darcy turned once more to look upon the enchanting sight…and his smile wavered. Elizabeth was talking to an officer, the same Mr. Denny who had been with Wickham that fateful day in Meryton. And she did not look pleased. The lovely smile he had seen on her pretty, pale face had become a frown, and her eyes were almost as icy as the blue of her gown. What had she been told? Damn Wickham for causing trouble without even being there.

But Darcy would not dwell on such things. He would approach Elizabeth, and every worry would fade under the light of her grace. There would be no concerns over connections or social statuses, no Wickham. It would just be her, looking more radiant than the sun.

Darcy quickly emerged from his hiding place and entered the spot Mr. Denny had just vacated. He began to feel shaky and weak just coming near her, and he hurriedly forced himself to be a man and stand strong as he dried his sweaty palms on his breeches.

"Miss Elizabeth."

Elizabeth faltered a step and it looked as though she would fall he had appeared so suddenly in front of her. Darcy would have been delighted to catch her, but - unfortunately - she caught herself and swallowed convulsively before muttering, "Mr. Darcy." Her voice was a mixture of frustration and disappointment, and Darcy's tongue immediately grew thick at the prospect of causing those feelings in her. She appeared to be waiting for him to speak, but words simply could not escape his heavy mouth. Her voice was not without it's edge as she finally said, "Quite a crush this evening, don't you think?"

"Yes."

…

He could kill himself. _Say something, you addle-pated ass! _

"You look quite - " _Ravishing, delectable, majestic, beautiful. _" - nice. Tonight. Miss Bennet." Nice. No, that simply would not do. _Nice _did not do her appearance any justice. His voice was soft as he added, "Enchantingly lovely." And it was true. She was even more beautiful in close proximity.

"Thank you," she automatically replied. It did not seem as though she had heard him, for she did not even look at him, but disdainfully toward the ground as she said, "You must be quite pleased with tonight's guest list, Mr. Darcy."

Damn. Her meaning did not escape him. She was referring to Wickham - _damn blasted _Wickham. Darcy could feel his mouth forming a cruel line as he answered, "Yes, I suppose I am."

She looked not the least bit surprised at his hostile tone. "How nice." Then for some time there was a dreadful silence, and Darcy would swear he could see her brain working as she sought an excuse to leave. "If you will excuse me, sir, I must…assist my sisters." Darcy barely had time to say, "Of course," before she had turned on her feet and left him.

* * *

><p><em>She is dancing with an idiot. <em>

_Here I am, _Darcy thought, _standing alone in a corner when I want nothing more than to hold her…_

_And she is dancing with an idiot. _

Darcy winced as he watched Elizabeth's clergyman cousin step yet again on her foot. "Pray forgive me, Miss Elizabeth," the oafish Mr. Collins muttered. Elizabeth only blushed and shook her head.

Would it be impolite to hit him, Darcy wondered?

"A thousand pardons, Miss Elizabeth!" the idiot cried as he nearly ripped the poor girl's demi-train.

Or could he cut it in? Wouldn't the situation be beneficial to all parties if Darcy just - for lack of a better wording - stole her and finished the dance for the oaf? Both Elizabeth and her cousin would be saved from the embarrassment of continuing their dance any further, the surrounding assembly would be saved from the agony of watching them, and Darcy would be saved from the torture of not being able to touch her.

"Oh, I am so sorry, Miss Elizabeth!"

Darcy sighed and closed his eyes, unable to watch any more. Perhaps he should just drag her off the dance floor…

Darcy actually contemplated that insane idea for a moment, and he was two seconds away from marching onto the dance floor, grabbing Elizabeth by the waist, and carrying her off, when the dance ended.

Finally. Darcy subconsciously began to emerge from his secluded corner of the room and draw near her. The words, "May I have the next dance?" were on the tip of his tongue…and she was approached by an officer. Damned regiment. The red coat quickly led Elizabeth back onto the floor and through the steps of the next dance.

Darcy nervously opened and closed his and hand and waited for the set to end. When it did he watched as Elizabeth bid her partner farewell and make her way toward her friend Charlotte Lucas. He followed.

When Darcy finally reached Elizabeth her back was turned toward him. "I would say that I can't believe it, Charlotte," she whispered, not noticing his presence, "but I do. I am not in the least surprised at such behavior from - " Though Elizabeth did not see him, Charlotte Lucas surely did. Elizabeth broke off as she followed her friend's gaze and turned around, nearly running her face into the folds of Darcy's cravat. "Oh! Mr. Darcy!"

Darcy quickly cleared his throat. "Miss Elizabeth." He should feel utterly ashamed of himself for this. _What the devil are you doing? _Darcy rebuked himself, _She's not of your class, you'll ruin your sister's prospects if you tempt yourself! _"If you are not otherwise engaged….I…" _But I'll do it anyway. _"May I have the great honor of the next dance?"

Elizabeth nearly jumped out of her skin with shock. Literally. Or so it appeared to Darcy. She muttered a bit in an attempt to form words, nearly causing him to die of the suspense, until she was finally able to whisper, "That would be lovely."

Darcy nodded, bowed, and returned to his corner.

_Bloody hell, what have I done?_

* * *

><p>When it was time for the dancing to recommence, Darcy approached Elizabeth and offered her his arm. He was relieved to see that it wasn't shaking. Elizabeth appeared hesitant to take his proffered arm, and for a moment Darcy could do nothing more than stare down at her, half in bewilderment, half in sheer fright. When he finally spoke his voice was so hollow it was barely audible. "Shall we?"<p>

She didn't smile, she didn't even say yes. Darcy began to wonder if she had in fact not heard him, but then she slowly nodded as she laid her hand on his sleeve as lightly as possible.

It was difficult leading her through the crush of people in the room, but he felt a sort of foolish sense of pride as he carefully navigated her through the crowd. It was as though by being given the opportunity to dance with Elizabeth he was being entrusted with protecting a special treasure. And she indeed was a treasure. Despite her recent coldness to him, Darcy could not help but feel elated at the thought. For this time, this one dance, she would be _his _treasure to display to the world.

Once they had taken their place in the set, Darcy could see the expressions of amazement surrounding them. Clearly these people could not fathom the fact that someone of his high station would deign to ask for a dance with a country miss. Darcy could hardly believe it himself. Not that Elizabeth was unworthy of his notice. In his opinion she was far more worthy than any woman of his acquaintance, in Hertfordshire society or in London. But wasn't this exactly what he'd been working to avoid for the past month? Darcy had made it a cardinal rule that during his time at Netherfield he would not, under any circumstances, go out of his way to seek Elizabeth's attention. And now here he was, breaking his own rule. It was almost enough to make Darcy despise himself. But then he looked at Elizabeth. She stood straight and tall across from him, her proud posture exhibiting with lovely affect the beauty of her swanlike neck, but her face was a portrait of shock. She dared a quick glance at him, and Darcy could see that she along with her neighbors and friends was somewhat awed at the prospect of someone of _his _means dancing with someone like her. It was one of those moments when a man found himself longing to dash a debonair smile and say something along the lines of, "Well believe it, darling." But unfortunately, due to his inability to do anything at this nerve-wracking moment but quake in his boots, Darcy could only stand in silence, eyes awkwardly lowered as he waited for the musicians to start up. Funny, he mused with a crooked smile directed at the ballroom floor, how they all thought Elizabeth was the one greatly honored by this dance, when it was actually Darcy who was honored.

Then the music began to play, and Darcy was forced to steel his courage and look up. The first step of this dance was a slow turn and then a passing touch of their hands. Just a touch, barely a hold. However the anticipation of feeling Elizabeth's hand in his caused the moment to seem stretched in time, and every second seemed to be growing slower and slower as he and Elizabeth made their turns and finally reached for each other's hand.

And Darcy was completely undone.

He went insane. Utterly insane at the touch of her hand.

Darcy had imagined many things about this young woman, but he had never, not once, envisioned himself kissing her. Well, that was not completely true. In his mind his lips may have once or twice savored the skin of her hand or neck. But never before had his imagination fabricated a moment wherein his lips touched hers. Most of the time it was because he had prevented his fantasies from tarrying toward an ungentlemanly path. However when he was asleep dreaming, and his mind lost control of itself, he still had never seen himself kissing her. Perhaps it was because he had never physically touched her that his mind could not visualize such intimacy between them.

But now.

Good God, now.

Now, the instant his hand touched hers, every sense of real life burst into oblivion, and he could feel, sense, know nothing but that hand in his. Time literally stopped. And suddenly from the simple touch of two hands Darcy could feel as though he felt all of her. He could feel the skin of her hands, despite the fact that they both wore gloves. He could see a mental image of both their hand-constricting pairs of gloves peeling away; then he could picture himself performing the action, relieving Elizabeth of her gloves by slowly pulling at the end of each lacy finger, one by one. Or with his teeth. He saw himself pulling at her gloves with his teeth, exhibiting to both of them a slow, sweet torture. And that was what did it. He could see himself kissing her. Not the backside of her hand, not her cheek, _her lips. _He saw it as though it were being acted out on a stage in front of him, his own head descending slowly toward Elizabeth's. He could see her leaning toward him, her lovely head upturned to meet him, her delicate little chest heaving in response to the pure charge of the moment. His lips were slowly lowering to capture hers…

And then they did. He could see it all in the glory of his mind's eye. Her full, red lips simply fit with his. Perfectly. He could feel the warmness of her mouth, he truly could taste her. She tasted like…chocolate. And utter heaven. She literally tasted like heaven, like mist, clouds, and everything that was good and holy. How he knew any of this he had no idea, he just knew.

And then his imagination grew more erotic, and the kiss began to deepen, and he could feel the softness of her lips as they surrendered to the mercy of his teeth and tongue. He was gentle, but demanding, and he could see himself pressing his lips firmly against hers, then passionately moving his mouth back and forth, in and out in a rhythmic motion that felt almost spiritual in its tenderness. And he was utterly delighted at the way her lips softened in response. He could see her body as it melted against his, and Darcy knew they were slowly beginning to crumble together, becoming something that was one in the same.

He could know her.

He suddenly felt that he knew every aspect of her, every emotion, every preference. Elizabeth tasted like chocolate because she loved it above all things, her favorite color was green, and she loved the smells of Christmastime. He knew all that. And he knew that though she appeared confident in her every action, she felt a secret apprehension that escaped those around her, a sense of fear that none had ever expected to come from her. And she knew that he understood.

Damn him, but there was something inside him that made him unable to say that he…felt…some…intense…feeling for her. But they were made for each other. He knew that for certain.

Now Darcy could see his head swiftly swooping downwards to quickly capture her lips once more before resting his forehead against hers. He wanted to give her all of himself. Every essence of Fitzwilliam Darcy he wanted to offer her, to hold and keep, and do with it as she saw fit. As though he were a delighted member of the audience, Darcy smiled as he saw himself nuzzling his nose against hers, wrapping his arms about her. He could feel her. He could feel the softness of her under his fingertips, and he could feel the undertones of her, the slyness and wit and charm and love, and then that indescribable something else that could only be called Elizabeth. And he wanted to give himself to her. And consume the very spirit of her. And make love to her.

All that at the touch of a hand.

"This is a lovely dance."

Darcy nearly jumped back five feet Elizabeth had given him such a start. He swiftly shook his head, and began returning to the present moment.

_Damn. Damn damn damn damn damn damn damn, I didn't kiss her at all!_

Darcy was just about to kick himself in the arse when he remembered he was required to reply to Elizabeth's comment. "Indeed - " Darcy's statement was cut off as the dance forced them to face the person in the line opposite them and make a turn.

Darcy was utterly bewildered as he turned toward the dancer behind him. Good Lord! Whoever this other female was, he had been so caught up in his fantasy he had no recollection of her! And if his knowledge of this dance was correct he had already taken a step with her three times!

Once Darcy returned to Elizabeth he managed to finish his reply. "It is enchanting."

How long had he been day dreaming? Clearly he had somehow managed to make the proper dance steps even while his mind had been in an entirely different place.

Damn, how Darcy wished to go back to that place.

But for now he was irrevocably lodged in the present moment, for Elizabeth's silence was beginning to disturb him in a way he could not possibly ignore. For what seemed to be ages she remained silent as they went through the dance, but then she suddenly turned to him, and something wicked gleamed in her dark eyes as she said, "It is _your _turn to say something now, Mr. Darcy. I talked about the dance, and _you _ought to make some kind of remark on the size of the room, or the number of couples."

Darcy chuckled under his breath. Now there was the Elizabeth he knew and -

And felt…something…interesting…toward…

"I assure you, Miss Elizabeth," Darcy answered with a slight upturned mouth, "that whatever you wish me to say shall indeed be said."

She acknowledged his amusement with a sly smile of her own, followed by a renewal of that wicked eye-gleam. "Very well. That reply will do for the present. Perhaps by and by I may observe that private balls are much pleasanter than public ones. But _now _we may be silent."

Darcy decided that he would rather not be silent, so he lifted an amused brow and said, "Do you talk by rule, then, while you are dancing?" Hmmph. Talk by rule. Darcy could not possibly see Elizabeth doing anything by rule.

Elizabeth seemed to find the thought humorous as well, for though she tried to mask it, her lips were quivering with compressed laughter. "Sometimes. One must speak a little you know. It would be hard to be entirely silent for half an hour together."

Darcy had to bite his tongue - literally _bite his tongue _- to stop himself from saying what he was thinking. That there was in fact an easy way for the two of them to be silent for half an hour. Kissing her breathless would be remarkably quiet. Actually that wasn't necessarily true. Darcy was almost certain that were such an event to occur he would feel compelled to groan or moan her name at least a few times, and he hoped he could expect the same from her. And then of course they both new what kissing her breathless would lead to...

God, what was happening to him? _Dammit man, focus!_

Darcy quickly returned his attention to Elizabeth. She was looking at him oddly, and fearing that she spied some spark of affection in him, Darcy determinedly hardened his gaze. In response, Elizabeth's odd look turned to one of vague contempt as she continued, "And yet for the advantage of _some_, conversation ought to be so arranged, as that they may have the trouble of saying as little as possible."

Darcy narrowed his eyes on Elizabeth's face. He was no imbecile - he knew what the woman was insinuating. When it was put in that way, it made Darcy sound silly and pompous. But that wasn't entirely the case. He would just prefer not to speak. Darcy hated to admit this, even to himself, but conversation always left him feeling…well…damned embarrassed.

Darcy's pride had been hurt by Elizabeth's scathing remark, and he could not let that pass without her knowing it. In a dangerous tone that was almost unrecognizable to him, Darcy replied, "Are you consulting your own feelings in the present case, or do you imagine that you are gratifying mine?"

She didn't even flinch. "Both," Elizabeth bit out with a challenging arch of her left brow, "for I have always seen a great similarity in the turn of our minds." Darcy raised his eyebrows in a way that said, "Have you?" prompting Elizabeth to continue. "We are each of an unsocial, taciturn disposition, unwilling to speak, unless we expect to say something that will amaze the whole room, and be handed down to posterity with all the éclat of a proverb."

Darcy smiled. Lord, was she impertinent.

It was one of the things he loved most about her.

"This is no very striking resemblance of your own character, I am sure. How near it may be to mine, I cannot pretend to say." Then with teasing look Darcy added, "_You _think it a faithful portrait undoubtedly."

Elizabeth shrugged. "I must not decide on my own performance."

The dance separated them for a moment, and Darcy spent the time granted him determining a decent reply. Perhaps they should start a new conversation altogether? One without sly, witty banter to arouse him? Truly, it seemed that almost every word Elizabeth uttered was enough to make his blood boil with desire, so it took him the entire first dance of the set until he finally said the first thing that came to mind. "Do you and your sisters very often walk to Meryton, Miss Elizabeth?" Random. But proper and insipid, so it would do.

Elizabeth's eyes widened, and she appeared to be thinking _very hard_ on something before she pressed her lips into a firm line, angled her face upward to meet his, and said, "Yes, we do. When you met us there the other day, we had just been forming a new acquaintance."

_Wickham. _

Darcy's entire body seemed to be enveloped in an indescribable rush oaf rage in a matter of moments. He could feel his face reddening, his jaw clenching so tightly his teeth might shatter. She still thought on _Wickham_. Elizabeth was dancing was him, Darcy! When their hands had touched he had been so overcome with intense feeling for her, and he had felt as though he had come to know every inch of her, both physical and emotional. And all the time she had been thinking of _Wickham_. For a time he could do nothing but glare Elizabeth into silence, which he did. One glance at his sharp eyes caused Elizabeth's skin to blanch as she swiftly lowered her eyes from his face.

Darcy, who normally thought so carefully on what he said before it was said, suddenly found his words flying glibly of his tongue as his anger increased. "Mr. Wickham," he bit of the despicable man's name, "is blessed with such…happy manners as may ensure his _making_ friends - whether he may be equally capable of _retaining_ them, is less certain."

No longer fearing him, Elizabeth looked up once more, the sneer in her voice matching his own. "He has been so unlucky as to lose _your _friendship - " _Lost my friendship? _Darcy scoffed. _Tossed my friendship into the gutter, stomped upon it with all his might, then burned it to ashes seems more like it. _" - and in a manner which he is likely to suffer from all his life."

Darcy was about to remark that Wickham had never suffered a moment in his life when he forcefully set about calming himself. They should change the subject. Should he comment on the weather? Ask after her sister's health? Darcy configured an innumerable amount of subject changes, but all his thoughts inevitably reached the conclusion, _Damn Wickham, damn Wickham, DAMN WICKHAM._

Most luckily, Darcy was saved from starting a new topic of conversation by the arrival - or, rather, the _interruption -_ of Sir William Lucas, the St. James's-loving Hertfordshire pomp. The insolent man was saying something complimentary towards him and Elizabeth, about how superior his dancing was… Darcy wasn't truly listening. He simply nodded when the moment allowed it, secretly envisioning himself ripping the kind gentleman's babbling head off and throwing it halfway to the Caribbean. But then something caught his attention.

"…when a certain desirable event, my dear Miss Eliza," Sir William then glanced at Bingley and Miss Jane, who were dancing uninterrupted not to far from them, "shall take place. What congratulations will then flow in! I appeal to Mr. Darcy…" And then the rest of Sir William Lucas's banter began to grow faint as Darcy focused his attention on the smiling face of his dear friend across the room. Were these people insinuating that Charles Bingley was planning to marry Miss Jane Bennet? Impossible! Bingley told Darcy everything - _everything! _Bingley would never think of taking such a step without seeking his guidance first. These fools were simply spreading false gossip, as most countryfolk tended to do. And yet…Bingley did appear rather taken with her. However, Darcy could not say Miss Jane appeared to be anything more than cordial toward his friend. No, no, this would not do. It would be such an unsuitable marriage for Bingley, and without even mutual affection to justify it!

Darcy would have to do something.

And fast.

However, he could do nothing at the present moment, because at the present moment he was dancing with Elizabeth.

Darcy awkwardly exhibited a large clearing of his throat as he watched Sir William Lucas retreat to wherever the bloody hell he had come from. "AHEM!" Then he swiftly blended back into the movements of the dance, Elizabeth following his lead. "Sir William's interruption has made me forget what we were talking of." _Oh, wait! _Darcy thought. _I remember now. We were discussing the prig who insulted my mother, deceived my father, swindled my money, and nearly compromised my sister, yes?_

"I do not think we were speaking at all," Elizabeth replied in a demure tone of voice. "Sir William could not have interrupted any two people in the room who had less to say for themselves. We have tried two or three subjects already without success, and what we are to talk of next I cannot imagine."

Letting aside his hostility, Darcy racked his brain once more for a suitable topic of conversation, then smiled and said in a voice that was almost a conspiratorial whisper, "What think you of books?" Books. Excellent. He adored books, she adored books, there was no possible way this discussion could be anything but a success. Perhaps they could discuss _Hamlet_! After all, Darcy thought with a smile, it was their favorite play.

But Elizabeth rather surprised him with her answer. "Books _oh! _no," she sighed. "I am sure we never read the same, or not with the same feelings."

Darcy chuckled under his breath. If only she knew just how similar their reading habits were. However, he would not let her off so easily.

Darcy shrugged one shoulder and returned Elizabeth's sigh with one of his own. "I am sorry you think so; but if that be the case, there can at least be no want of subject. We may…compare our different opinions?"

"No."

…_No?_

"I cannot talk of books in a ballroom," she insisted, "my head is always full of something else."

Darcy glanced dubiously in her direction before the dance forced them to separate. To all outward appearances, Elizabeth had never seemed the type of woman to be in possession of a one-track mind. As soon as he returned Darcy said a doubtful voice, "The present always occupies you in such scenes - does it?"

"Yes, always."

…

_Well. Apparently that was all the explanation required. _

God help him, Darcy could not help but be irked at the woman's odd behavior. Especially when she suddenly dared to exclaim, "I remember hearing you once say, Mr. Darcy, that you hardly ever forgave, that your resentment once created was unappeasable. You are very cautious, I suppose, as to it's _being created_."

_What the devil? _Darcy's brow became creased with confusion, and he felt his tongue growing thick."I - I am." He had stammered a bit, but his voice had been firm. Darcy whole-heartedly believed that, though he possessed many faults, he was an all around kind gentleman, who would never consciously search for reasons to resent others.

Elizabeth batted her eyelashes coyly. "And never allow yourself to be blinded by prejudice?"

_What? The? Devil? _"…I hope not."

"Mmm, it is particularly incumbent on those who never change their opinion, to be secure of judging properly at first."

Darcy could feel his fury igniting once more. What he wanted to do was grab Elizabeth by her pretty little shoulders, shake her with all his might and yell, "IS THIS ABOUT WICKHAM AGAIN?" But he settled for a menacing growl of, "May I ask to what these questions tend?"

His tone was not without it's affect; for Elizabeth looked as though she would dreadfully like to take a large step away from his forbidding form, if only the dance would allow it. Her voice was exceedingly more _blasé _than it had been previously when she answered, "Uhm, merely to the illustration of _your _character. I am trying to make it out."

_Hmm, do tell. _Darcy made the dance's required turn, then stopped directly in front of Elizabeth, leaning toward her to catch her eyes in a piercing glare. "And what is your success?" he sneered.

His increase in vengeance only proved to stoke her fire. "I do not get on at all," she said, leaning closer to him in turn. "I hear such different accounts of you as puzzle me exceedingly."

Was Elizabeth seriously putting his character into question? Was she truly believing the cruel words of insolent gossipmongers over his? Did she not know him better than that? Of course the idiotish townsfolk didn't like him, no type of society ever tended to like him! But he had thought… At least he had _hoped_ Elizabeth would know better.

When Darcy finally spoke his voice was so low and hollow in sounded as though it were miles away, or perhaps coming from deep in the ground, deeper than the grave. "I can readily believe that reports would vary greatly with respect to me. And…" Suddenly it was quite difficult for the words to come out. "And I could wish, Miss Bennet, that you were not to…_sketch _my character at the present moment, as there is reason to fear that the performance would reflect _no credit _on _either_."

Elizabeth appeared duly shocked by his remark, and for what had to be the first moment of Darcy's acquaintance with her, she was utterly speechless. Then, remembering that the dancing still went on, and there they were glowering at each other in the middle of the set, Elizabeth fell back into the steps of the dance, clearly taking advantage of the slow turn she made to his back to formulate some reply. "But…if I do not take your likeness now, I may never have another opportunity."

How was it that he was possessed by a longing to both kiss her and strangle her? "I would by no means suspend any pleasure of yours," he muttered with an unquestioned finality.

And then the dance ended. It seemed as though it had not been so long, and yet at the same time it felt like a set lasting an eternity. After Darcy led Elizabeth through the crowd - this time not feeling so grand and protective as he had before - the two of them parted in silence, a disgruntled, aggravated silence on both sides. And then Darcy sought a private place, any private place where he could think.

* * *

><p>"…Am I mad?" Darcy asked the dead silent spare room that he had found in some hallway near the sitting room not too long ago. Seeing as Netherfield was a newly adopted home - and adopted only temporarily - there existed many spare rooms such as this one, filled with nothing but dusty old furniture traipsed in white sheets, giving Darcy the perfect haven in which to escape the crush of the ball and evaluate his present circumstances in peace. "<em>Am I mad?" <em>he asked aloud once more. Since the room could not very well answer him, Darcy nodded his head and answered in the affirmative, "I'm mad. I'm mad, I've gone mad, I'm utterly insane."

He could still remember the feel of her. It was as though the mark of her hand had become permanently imprinted on his, and with it all that had come from it - the fantasized kiss, all his recent knowledge of her. He was being ridiculous, utterly ridiculous. 'She tasted like heaven,' what was he, an imbecile? And yet even now he could taste her mouth… He was sure of it.

Darcy knew he should be furious with her. He had gained the courage to ask Elizabeth to dance, and she had returned that courage with what had to be fifty or so insults abusing his honor. But now that he knew her as he did - however the devil that had come about - Darcy could not very well spurn her. And in truth it was not Elizabeth who was at fault, it was Wickham. Wickham with his lies and and his simpering smile, misleading and deceiving her. The man was lucky he had gone to London, because had he been within ten miles of this damned ball Darcy would have found him, torn off his legs and -

Darcy's violent verbal onslaught was suddenly interrupted (which was actually a good thing, since Darcy had had no idea where he'd been going with it…) by the sound of running feet. _Small _running feet. _Soon approaching _small, running feet. Darcy held his breath and pressed his back firmly against a shadowed wall. He wasn't particularly looking forward to being asked why he had run away from the party and into a tiny room that smelt of musty old linen.

The door slowly began to open, squeaking on its rusty hinges. And then…

Of course.

Who else could it be but Elizabeth?

…

Sometimes it felt as though the Good Lord loved playing practical jokes on him.

Elizabeth swiftly slipped through the open doorway and began to close the door behind her, then thought better of it and nudged the door open a bit to allow some light into the room. Darcy quickly buried himself deeper into the shadows. He was beginning to wonder whether this would always be the way with them, Elizabeth being somewhere and he having to hide in the shadows and stalk her from a distance. Then Elizabeth suddenly gave the door another look, bit her lip in consternation, and closed it firmly once more. Darcy directed his gaze to the now most definitely not ajar door - his eyes had adjusted to the darkness of the room some time ago, therefore he was certain that it was not ajar - and he nearly groaned. There was no possible way his thoughts could deviate from this direction. The door was closed. And he was alone with Elizabeth. In a dark room. Far away from any of the ball's attendees.

Though most of the time he took great pride in the fact, at this precise moment, he wished he were not such a gentleman.

If he weren't the gentleman he undoubtedly was, Darcy could easily walk that three feet across the room, take Elizabeth in his arms, push her body up again that closed door, caress and consume those cherry red lips until she was weak with wanting of him, and then he would know for certain whether or not he'd been right about her taste! And he'd - !

Good God, was she crying?

Darcy's eyes riveted to the spot where Elizabeth stood, directly to the left of the infamous door, looking like the weight of the entire universe was on her shoulders as she heaved a sigh and leaned against the wall. Every five seconds or so he could have sworn he heard some sniffling from her.

No, no, no, Elizabeth shouldn't cry. Elizabeth should never _ever _cry. A person with a spirit such as hers had far better things to do than cry. Thank the Lord Darcy could just barely see her in the darkness that enveloped them. If he were _really _to see her cry, he would… Well, he didn't know what he would do.

"Blasted Caroline Bingley," Elizabeth muttered. "What the devil does she know?"

She was crying over _Caroline_? No, no, that was _entirely_ unlike her. She was crying over something else.

Without thinking, Darcy slowly drew his hand upwards and looked at it expectantly. Then he flexed it as he continued to gaze at his palm. He still felt her. And with the feeling of her delicate palm grasped in his Darcy could also sense her feelings, and he could read them as easily as if they had been written on a sheet and handed over to him. She was upset because she was confused. Confused and uncertain. And there was some underlying part of her that not even she could recognize, a part that needed him. Him, Fitzwilliam Darcy.

And that, perhaps, was the most terrifying prospect of all.

"Lizzie? Lizzie?"

One of her sisters was calling for her. Elizabeth quickly squared her shoulders, then began working at drying her damp eyes with the back of her hand. Perhaps he should say something to her before she left, make her aware of his presence, and say some comforting words!

Darcy took one step toward Elizabeth…at the exact moment she opened the door and stepped out.

Waiting until the sound of her retreating footsteps indicated her sure departure, Darcy walked slowly toward the open doorway, intending to leave before anyone noticed his presence, when something caught his eye.

A small white flower laid on the ground before him, shining in the light of the open doorframe. Darcy gently lifted the bloom with his forefinger and thumb, held it to his face and breathed deeply.

"God," he whispered falling back against the wall in sheer awe. "Elizabeth, it smells like you. It - it - doesn't smell…like a flower! It smells like you, not that rose and lilac sent you wear - _you._"

In that instant Darcy decided that the Lord may be a prankster, but He was very courteous to him when His temper allowed it. So he gave God a quick thank you for the token, placed it it firmly in his breast pocket, and slowly but surely left the room.

* * *

><p><em>* This little quip was inspired by one of my most loyal readers, Avanell. Told you I would use that somewhere, Avanell. ;)<em>


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter X

Exeunt

Darcy awoke most irregularly late the next morning - or afternoon, rather. He had slept rather deeply after the exhaustion of the ball - exhaustion due in part to the various moments of unfulfilled lust, in part to the blasting headaches caused by Mrs. Bennet's yattering. There had never seemed to be an end to the old woman's clucks and squawks on the delightful marriage prospects now in view between her eldest daughter and Charles Bingley. Darcy had decided by the end of that blasted night that he would find a way to settle this Jane Bennet nonsense as soon as possible. For more reasons than one…

His attraction to the girl's sister frightened him. He, Fitzwilliam Darcy - a man of the world who had experienced deceit, danger, and all the trouble that came along with them - was frightened of a woman. The thought was both alarming and humbling at the same time.

The lust, the headaches, the alarm, the humility - they had all threatened to completely undue him before the night was through. It had actually been quite lucky he had made it to his bed before he had collapsed in a heap on the floor. Rather, he had been able to collapse onto a mattress. His tired body had quite literally thrown itself under the coverlet barely two seconds after he had shod his clothing.

His rising in the morning - or afternoon, rather - was just as abrupt.

The first sound he was to hear upon awakening was the unmistakeable screech of Caroline Bingley.

"_Charles, be reasonable!" _

Darcy's upper-half sprung off the mattress so quickly his skull nearly slammed against the headboard. _Close call_, he thought as he rubbed the top of his head, in a way assuring himself that it was still in its proper place on his neck. Darcy listened very closely for Bingley's response but heard nothing, the poor fellow never having the voice nor the inclination to stand against any person, let alone his tyrannical nightmare of sister. Caroline's rejoinder, on the other hand, was most definitely audible.

"_Why do you not close up the house now and be done with it?" _

Darcy all but leapt out of the bed and into his morning attire. He was unsure of Kendall's current condition but there was no need to wake the poor man, and either way it would take far too long to endure his machinations. Darcy knew not what had inspired this haste in him, only that the thought of leaving Netherfield so suddenly had sent a sheer wave of fear running through him.

After shakily throwing his shirt from the night before over his head and practically tripping over his breeches and boots, Darcy ran to his dressing room for a waistcoat. Blue, green, white - oh, who cared? He aimlessly grabbed at a forest green waistcoat, covered it with a deep blue coat quite clashing in color, then reached for the inevitable cravat.

Damn it all, he hated these things. Darcy looked in the mirror for assistance…and found none at all. These things were simply to difficult for any average human being to handle. (Darcy was convinced that men like Kendall and Cremms were born with either magical powers or above average minds, because it seemed as though there was nothing in the world a gentleman's valet could not handle.)

Darcy lowered his head till his chin was pressed against his chest, holding the troublesome cravat immobile so that he could slip on the blue coat.

_"Charles, if you are going to London, why not take us all? If you pack up the house now, we may spend the upcoming Christmastide among the ton! Would you not enjoy that so much more than being among these…country people?" _

Oh dear Lord… London!

All thoughts of the damnable cravat were forgotten as Darcy ran from his room and took the stairs two at a time.

His first instinct had been to try the breakfast room, seeing as it was the morning and that was where most people went in the morning - but then he remembered that it was the afternoon, rather. So, as soon as his feet were off the staircase and on the marble floor of the entrance hall below, Darcy made a mad dash for the drawing room. Throwing the double doors open without a care, Darcy entered the drawing room to find an enraged Caroline Bingley and a rather distressed Charles Bingley looking at him in wonder.

And that was the moment Darcy was able to recall the fact that he wore no cravat, had not buttoned his waistcoat, most probably had not buttoned the top fastenings on his undershirt either, and that he had not shaved, fixed his raggedy hair, or even so much as washed his face.

Darcy surreptitiously glanced downwards to ensure that he had remembered breeches.

Yes, he thought with a relieved sigh, he had remembered.

The only thing worse than standing in the middle of a drawing room dressed like a complete mongrel was the promiscuous gaze of Caroline Bingley generously perusing his disheveled state.

Darcy instantly sat in the closest chair. And covered himself with his arms.

For the longest time no one was able to say a word. Bingley looked half amused, half terrified. Caroline looked as if she were attempting to decide whether she should grab Darcy or faint at his feet. And then there was one word from the far corner of the room.

"Hello!" Louisa Hurst giggled, then waved sheepishly as she took in the mismanaged state of his attire. Surely, even from Mrs. Hurst's faraway seat at the other end of the room, Darcy must have looked quite the sight. However, Louisa did not seem to take offense at his appearance, or to even be shocked. She simply sipped her tea with the bliss of brainless woman, and smiled at him. "Lovely morning, isn't it?"

Darcy allowed himself the slightest of smiles directed toward his folded arms. So he was not the only one having misconceptions on the time of day… Darcy looked up at Louisa with friendly eyes and said with what he thought was a rather boyish grin, "Or afternoon, rather."

Louisa positively beamed, her often…not so pleasant appearance looking almost beautiful with the obvious delight she felt at being spoken to. Darcy thought he heard a slight growl from Caroline as she sent a fuming glare in her sister's direction. A possessive glare that seemed to say, _Just try to make him smile again and you will see what happens._ Louisa quickly withered back into the confines of her corner.

Now that Darcy had recovered himself, he looked to Bingley and opened his mouth, ready to ask his questions. But then his jaw quickly snapped shut as he realized that he couldn't remember why he had rushed down there in the first place. Therefore Darcy simply sought to question Bingley with his eyes, cocking his head a bit to the right and glancing a few times in Caroline's direction, gestures that he hoped Bingley recognized as a query.

It took Bingley a few moments of staring nonplussed at Darcy's state of dress and tousling his own puffy, orange-red head of hair before he took the hint. "Oh!" Bingley blurted with a bit of an embarrassed look. "I am leaving for London in a few moments, some business with my solicitor at the London house, and Caroline insists that I turn a short venture to Town into an all out _caravan _away from Netherfield, for good!" And then suddenly Bingley's eyes turned pleading. "Darcy, I… I couldn't possibly."

That was when Darcy knew that his dear friend was in love, and with none other than Jane Bennet. Bingley's cornflower blue eyes were alight with a passion that Darcy had never seen from the likes of any man before. And the damning thing was that Darcy understood his passion, having recently come to terms with the fact that he himself was highly attracted to a certain Bennet lady. But Bingley's passion made no difference; because Darcy had closely observed the lady in question at last night's ball, and had determined with great certainty that Jane Bennet was _not _in love with Charles Bingley. It was all Darcy could do not to hold Bingley in a tight embrace then and there, as he thought of the great injustice of his friend's unrequited love. The lady was pleasant towards him, to be sure; but whilst Bingley had fawned over Miss Bennet and catered to her every need from almost the first moment of their meeting, she herself had appeared almost indifferent to his attentions. She smiled at Bingley the way she smiled at all men - and women, for that matter. There were no visible sparks of love in her; and that, to Darcy's knowledge, was a clear sign of feigned attachment. Clearly the poor girl was driven on by her mother's unshakable desire - no, yearning - for her girls to marry well and fast. Darcy almost pitied Miss Jane. However he could not allow himself to sympathize with the woman who would forcefully - albeit unwillingly - break his best friend's fragile heart if their makeshift courtship lasted another second.

But then there was that look in his eyes…

"Bingley, go to London as you planned."

Caroline obviously had not taken his statement seriously. "But - but, Mr. Darcy, you must wish to finally be free of these horrid Hertfordshire people and back to the decent society of London," Caroline drawled, her smile quivering as if she were attempting to hold in a laugh.

"Yes, Mr. Darcy, you must!" Louisa parroted from her corner, clearly hoping to regain a place in the conversation.

Darcy's eyes were cold as ice, and no doubt the same color as he said, "_No." _

The sisters were absolutely flabbergasted. "…Oh," Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst said in perfect harmony.

"Well then," Bingley said with a triumphant smile and an awkward cough to cover his laugh, "I shall see you all in a couple of days. Try not to shoot all the birds at once, Darcy." Then he left the room with an extra skip in his step, closing the double doors behind him.

After watching his friend exit the room, now most definitely jovial in mood, Darcy raised his arms over his head as he released a world-weary sigh, leaned his head against the top of the straight-backed chair he sat in, and began to close his eyes….

But not before he saw Caroline's eyes grow what he swore must have been ten feet wider as she marveled at her newfound viewpoint.

Darcy leapt from his chair, bolted to the doors, threw them both open, and ran to find Kendall.

* * *

><p>"Mr. Darcy, we should like a word with you."<p>

Darcy looked over the leather-bound copy of whatever book it was he had intended to read but in the end had done nothing but stared at. The Bingley sisters loomed in front of him, Caroline with her arms crossed determinedly in front of her and Louisa performing an unconvincing facsimile of anger. He would lament the relative silence he had been enjoying a mere two seconds ago. Darcy took a deep breath and attempted to bridle his impatience before he spoke. "Yes, Miss Bingley? Mrs. Hurst?"

"Mr. Darcy," Caroline began in an authoritative tone, "it has become essential that we assist my brother Charles. Immediately."

Darcy set down the unnamed book. "Er, assist your brother in what way, Miss Bingley?"

"By rescuing him from the clutches of a common fortune hunter, of course."

"Common fortune hunter?" Darcy's mind reeled. Surely they could not mean...

"Why, Jane Bennet!" Miss Bingley circled the perimeter of the room, casually brushing passing objects across her fingertips as she elaborated on her plot. "She could not possibly feel any affection towards him. Indeed, she does nothing but sit about like a pretty Grecian statue while Charles gleefully does her bidding. I do not even want to discuss the issue of the Bennet family." Darcy hid his face behind the glass of brandy he probably should not have been drinking so very early in the morning, loath to admit that his own thoughts had been working in the same unsatisfactory direction. However, he could not bring himself to call the girl a fortune hunter. Miss Jane may do nothing in response to Bingley's generous attention but sit about like a Grecian statue, but she was a kind, smiling Grecian statue. It wasn't very good evidence against her treachery, but the truth was that it was quite impossible to imagine Jane Bennet as anything but a saint.

Caroline took Darcy's silence as a free invitation to continue. "It is high time we left this God forsaken countryside," she sighed, accompanied by the dramatic addiction of a weary hand over her brow, "before Charles' _tendre _for Miss Bennet spirals out of control and he does something…" She shuddered. "Something _terrible_."

"Such as?" Darcy nearly snapped. For a fraction of a moment he had agreed with her sentiments, but really this was too much.

"Such as _propose marriage_."

"And what would be-?" Darcy had been about to ask what would be so terrible about that, when Miss Bingley interrupted him with a loud shriek of, "_Everything!_

"They have no wealth! No connections! They are a family who has no influence in Society - _running mad about the countryside! _It is unfathomable, Mr. Darcy, and I believe you know this as well as I! Indeed, I am certain you are aware of the Bennets' lowliness!"

"I find it difficult to believe that you, Miss Bingley, would accuse any family of lowliness," he replied in a low, malevolent tone. "You who descend from a family of tradesmen and…what was the other one?" he provoked. "I believe it involves the words _fish_ and _mongers_?"

Louisa beamed, nodding her head exuberantly in confirmation; but Caroline visibly blanched at his insult, and for a moment truly did look as though she would require smelling salts. However, with a determination that Darcy had to admire, Miss Bingley lifted her chin and responded to his assault with equal fire. "I believe it would be best if we resisted the company of both Miss Jane _and _Miss Elizabeth Bennet, would not you agree, Mr. Darcy?"

Caroline placed two hands upon the library desk and leaned menacingly toward him. "After all," she continued in an enigmatic whisper, "we do not want _anyone_ to become enamored with the homely wretch's 'fine eyes,' as I recall them being so affectionately endeared."

Darcy jumped to his feet. "_What did you call her?_"

"A homely _wretch_," Caroline returned. "Plain, obnoxious, and altogether unworthy of any man's notice."

"You listen to me," Darcy growled, shaking with the intensity of his anger. "_Elizabeth…is-_"

The empty brandy glass in his hand **shattered**.

Miss Bingley's mouth gaped.

Darcy was so shocked he barely noticed the sharp needles of pain that shot through the palm of his hand.

"Mr. Darcy!" Mrs. Hurst gasped. "What on earth happened?" Caroline speared her sister with an impatient glare.

_I don't know_, Darcy thought. _I don't know._

* * *

><p><em>"Shit!<em>…My apologies, Kendall."

"It's quite alright, sir. I'm sure I would utter worse words were I in your condition."

Darcy sat with his trusted - and, thankfully, fully recovered - valet in two seats near the large window in his bedchamber, Kendall doing his best to remove the many shards of glass implanted in his master's palm.

Another moment of silence ensued, interrupted only by Darcy's mutter of, "We're losing the light." Darcy turned his head to watch the slowly setting sun dip below the horizon, trying not to wince when Kendall plucked away another tiny fragment of glass. Oddly enough, the small pieces were the most painful.

"I'm nearly finished, sir." Another pluck with the tweezers.

After clamping his lips together in order to subdue a cry of pain, Darcy turned to Kendall and smiled gratefully at him. It was strange, and actually quite comforting, to be cared for. And, he was forced to admit, a bit embarrassing. He was a man of eight and twenty years. But at the moment he felt only eight.

…

More silence.

…

Kendall paused in his work. "What is it you did again, sir?"

"Nothing, Kendall," Darcy barked.

…

"Do you have my things packed, Kendall?"

"Indeed, sir. Packed and loaded in the carriage." Another pluck.

"_Aggh!_…Excellent."

They were leaving for London. Actually, they should have left hours ago, but Caroline had to take damn near a millennium to pack her things together, and now they were forced to travel by night because the Bingley sisters "simply could not fathom leaving their brother alone any longer than was necessary." Did they care that the roads were dangerous at night? No. Would they mind it if a pack of highwaymen tipped the carriage and killed them all? Of course not! And why? _Because no one ever listens to a damn word I say!_

And yet, Darcy thought amidst the sting of pain as Kendall used the brass tweezers to remove an almost microscopic shard of glass, why should he be listened to? He was a fool. Going so utterly mad over a woman he didn't know the power of his own strength - or of his anger.

Miss Bingley's spiteful words against Elizabeth had brought out a fury in him he had only known the day of his mother's death. His vision had turned a deep red hue and his hands had burned to hit something, to attack, to lash out. In the case of his mother's passing such feelings were understandable - she had given birth to him for God's sake, and he'd felt the strongest love for her that a son could ever feel toward his mother. Did he feel…something for Elizabeth? Anything? Anything at all? He must have felt some kind of affection toward her if a mere few words against her had caused a well made piece of glasswork to shatter in his hand. But what kind of affection was it? Was it…?

No, he didn't even want to think the word.

That was why he had to leave Hertfordshire. And, he swiftly reminded himself, to save Bingley from a loveless marriage! There was no doubt in Darcy's mind that his friend was intending to wed Jane Bennet, something he was convinced would be a major misstep if Bingley truly went through with it. And there was her family's low connections and lack of status to consider, but that was only a trifling matter in comparison to this:

What would he do if Bingley married into the Bennet family? He would undoubtedly see Elizabeth time and time again. There was very little remaining of his sanity, and he knew that were he once more thrown into the young lady's frequent company he would be irretrievably lost.

But he was doing this for Bingley, Darcy's mind shouted as he attempted to quench the nauseous wave of guilt rising in his stomach.

_They _were doing this for Bingley.

Another pluck of the tweezers.

"_AGGH!_"

* * *

><p>Within one hour they had all exited Netherfield Hall, never to return.<p>

Darcy was finding it difficult to understand his own melancholy. He could not say for certain why the recognition of the fact that he would never again walk through those halls, or that there would never be another morning spent seated at that library window, made his heart feel as if it were being pulverized by a heavy silver hammer. All he knew was that he _had _to keep his head down. He could _not_ look at Netherfield.

And yet he couldn't help himself.

Darcy warily raised his hand to lift the rim of his top hat above his line of vision, intending only to glance at the building, just for a moment! But in just a brief upward flick of his eye he saw it.

Elizabeth's window. Or, rather, what _was _Elizabeth's window, during her stay at Netherfield. And for a brief moment of insanity he could have sworn he saw a flash of her pure white chemise, just as it had been that fateful night not so very long ago when he had prayed for her.

"Mr. Darcy, do hurry! You'll freeze yourself!" he heard Caroline call.

"Yes, Mr. Darcy, do!" Louisa cried.

He would never see her again.

"Mr. Darcy!"

Good God, he would _never _see her again.

"Mr. Darcy, do come quickly!"

"_I'll never see her again_," he whispered so softly it was barely heard above the wind, repeating the phrase for the simple reason that he had to utter the words aloud in order to really believe they were true.

"_Mr. Darcy!" _

Darcy entered the carriage, the movements of his body completely absent from the thoughts of his mind. Never to see her smile, never to hear her boisterous laugh, never to catch that scent that was so intoxicatingly hers, never to look into those rich chocolate brown eyes and lose his soul, _never again_.

"Finally," Caroline moaned. "I thought we'd never leave."

It was that word. That horrible word _never_. As the carriage rolled down the rutted country road every single bump pronounced the dreadful two syllables. _Never, never, never, never. _

Darcy shook his head, secretly hoping the action would shake the word away as well. He would have to get his priorities straight. It was high time he returned his attention to his responsibilities. Perhaps that was how he would pass the time during the long carriage ride to London, counting his responsibilities. He tried - Georgie, Pemberley, tenants, crops, servants, but the awful word continued to invade the barricade he'd created in his mind. And so it went on for hours. _Managing accounts, never, looking after Aunt Catherine, never, never. _

He had to do something to get the word off his mind. Anything.

After taking a moment to assure himself that his fellow travelers were asleep, Darcy surreptitiously placed several crisp pieces of paper on the traveling escritoire. He would write something. He had a penchant, perhaps even a talent, for narrating. It was a bit of a secret between him and his little Georgie, beginning from the days of old when Darcy's holidays home from school found him sitting at the edge of his sister's tiny bed creating his own makeshift fairytales for her. Even when he was not at home but studying at Cambridge, he would burn the midnight oil penning her a tale and would then mail it to the nursemaids with instructions that she read them to Georgiana at nighttime. Anything to keep their mother off her mind.

He would write her a bit of a short story. For old time's sake.

Darcy put his pen to paper and squinted his eyes to allow them to grow accustomed to the dim lighting allowed by the carriage lantern. And then he began. Writing without thought, mindlessly scribbling words that mirrored the recesses of his soul.

_There once was a whimsical enchantress, so spirited and sparkling each movement of her hand convinced the stars that she was one of them, and that it was their duty to run in whichever direction her delicate forefinger pointed. Her lips were softer, redder, and more lovingly shaped than the most perfect petal of a rose, and when they bent into a smile the universe itself could not help but to smile in return. Her eyes were so dark and fine that in their depths even the coldest of men could lose their souls. The enchantress often walked in the wood near her manor, and felt herself so at home with the trees that she often relied upon them for her support, relieving to their sturdy trunks all her woes - for though she did well not to show it, the lovely enchantress did indeed have troubles. _

_At the brisk light of one charming, misty morn, a hunter, plain and wretched, stood submerged in the greenery of the magical wood. He hid himself well, concealing his appearance from the world with the drooping hood of his hunter's cape. And with his looks he locked away his words as well, never willing himself to speak a word in the presence of any being from the tallest of men to the tiniest of frogs. Even in the presence of his own self. _

_When the hunter saw the beautiful enchantress, making company with the trees as was her habit, he became instantly bewitched by her, and found himself forcing his own shadowy figure closer behind the tree against which rested her back. She did not sense his presence. Her attention was fixed solely on the sky, with its soft, wispy clouds floating by and its pink sun rising to greet her. But the hunter could sense the very essence of her, finding himself quite willing to stand in his spot behind her shoulder forever, breathing into his lungs that magic that redirected the stars and persuaded the sad world to join her in blissful happiness. And behind the sturdy tree branches he did stay for what seemed to be hours summing to eternity. Then it began to rain. _

_Whilst all the little woodland creatures trotted and hopped and crawled for cover from the quickly falling raindrops, the hunter and the enchantress remained fixed in their spots. And suddenly: fate. One single, intervening drop of rainwater fell beautifully to earth, and in that precise speck of time the enchantress and the hunter released a cherishing sigh. The enchantress turned and looked upon the cloaked figure at her shoulder, startled at the sight of his shadowed presence. But then the enchantress smiled, an upturn of the mouth so sweet everything from heaven to the deepest levels of hell sensed the birth of an unknown joy in the mortal world. And the hunter was compelled to say the first words any piece of the universe had ever felt escape his lips, _

_"'Tis quite a miracle, isn't it? Water falling from the sky."_

Only after Darcy penned the final quotation mark did any sense of reality return, and he began to realize just who he was writing about, why he was writing it, and what he was feeling. It was time to put it all behind him. To put _her _behind him. So, even though it nearly tore apart his soul to do so, Darcy lifted the soft pages of his soulful narrative into his hands, slowly crumpled them into a ball the size of his fist, opened the carriage window just a crack, and tossed the wrinkled mound of words into the wind and onto the dirt road behind him. He had expected it to feel as though the weight of the world had been lifted off of his shoulders, but instead he felt nothing but extra weight on his soul, and perhaps an extra emptiness in his heart. But when he closed his eyes and rested his weary head against the carriage, he saw Elizabeth as she had been that day so shortly after they had first met, with pretty little flowers embedded in her braided hair. "_Good bye, Mr. Darcy_," she whispered.

And with lids still lowered he answered in the softest of whispers, "Good bye."


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter XI

Hell is the Heart of London

"I _hate _London," Fitzwilliam Darcy growled to himself as he walked along a busy sidewalk outside Mayfair. "I _hate _it." With disgust, Darcy kicked a piece of runaway garbage out of his path and continued his walk. "It's dirty, and it's crowded, and it smells like - Oh, I do beg your pardon, ma'am," he said, quickly sidestepping an old woman carrying a rather frighteningly large cane.

He had done it. He had convinced Bingley to stay in London, perhaps permanently, just as he had told Caroline he would do. And Darcy had felt so utterly sickened with himself afterward that he had thought it necessary to get a little fresh air to mollify his roiling stomach. It was too bad, he thought peevishly, that the air in London was far from fresh.

He simply could not erase from his mind the mental image of the utterly crushed expression on Bingley's face when Darcy had told him that it would be for the best to avoid creating an attachment with Jane Bennet. That the woman did not share his feelings for her.

But it was the truth, was it not? And Bingley deserved to have the truth told him, heartbreaking though it may be. Darcy owed him that much, didn't he? After all, the two of them had been the best of friends for years.

Since their first year at Cambridge, to be precise.

When Darcy had caught some of the wealthy, titled boys dunking Bingley's head in a chamber pot.

He had beaten the three buffoons quite severely, of course. Darcy had given one of them a black eye, another a bloody nose, and then had granted the third gentleman a sore jaw _and_ a kick in the arse for good measure.

_Perhaps I should have gone out for boxing, _Darcy thought.

After the threesome had run away with their tails between their legs, Darcy distinctly remembered Bingley's first words to him:

_"I had only wanted to be liked."_

From then on Darcy had stood firmly beside Bingley as his greatest friend, confidante, mentor, assistant - always looking to his friend's safety first. Safety from cruel words, from spiteful people, and even - safety from women.

Bingley would one day find a worthy woman who returned his love; and if Darcy had to muck about London for a hundred years in order for him to do so, then so be it.

As Darcy proceeded to shift his weight in order to push aside another piece of filth, there was a sudden tap upon his shoulder.

"Darcy, you old fool, what are you doing in your least favorite city on earth?"

At the sound of the familiar voice, Darcy turned, encircling the shoulder-tapper in a manly embrace - a hug that was warm, but not too warm. Room temperature, perhaps. "Max, you idiot!" Darcy exclaimed with a teasing grin.

Maxwell Fading took Darcy by the shoulders and gave him a hearty shake. "Fitzwilliam Darcy, you have not changed a bit! What has it been? Four years?"

Darcy grimaced. "Perhaps five."

"No, don't say that!" Max groaned with a dramatic hand over his heart. "It makes me feel so…damned…old." Max Fading had always been quite the actor - or, perhaps, quite the melodramatic - during their days at Cambridge. He was of a medium height - Darcy could see quite easily over the top of his head, - with chocolate brown hair that hung in wisps _over_ his brows, and dark sapphire blue eyes that glowed _under _them. Max was the perfect antithesis of Darcy's awkward, antisocial behavior. Mr. Fading loved to attend balls and socialize - albeit, mostly with women, who went absolutely mad for him, and would happily jump into Max's bed at the snap of his finger, - he possessed a pleasing charm and inexhaustible wit, and he always knew precisely what to say.

Mr. Darcy would choose death before attending a social gathering, possessed a thick tongue for speech and sad excuse of a smile for charm, and when occasions ensued it was often that the only word his lips could produce was _umm_ - if that even qualified as a word. And as for his reputation amongst the ladies of society, Darcy had been made aware that he was seen as _brooding _in the eyes of the female sex - an attribute that was normally commendable, according to the _ton _women, but was not so in Darcy's case. He was _too _brooding, they all said. _Too, too _brooding. Yes, two _too_'s.

Regardless of their differing personalities, Max got along very well with Darcy. In fact, Max Fading, Charles Bingley, and Fitzwilliam Darcy had been the most unstoppable trio of misfits in Cambridge (the only reason for Max's misfitity - _misfitosity?_ - being that his father dared to work for a living, no matter that Fading Sr. was highly successful). They had each received cruel treatment from their peers, and together they had made the perfect team. Bingley was the kind, benevolent one; Max was the dashing, mischievous one; and Darcy… Well, Darcy supposed he was the one who kept the two of them out of trouble.

After a moment more of friendly greetings, Max asked Darcy if he could join him in his jaunt about town, and they were soon off.

Darcy turned and smiled at his old university chum, a great sense of nostalgia washing over him. "Where the devil have you been the past five years, Fading?"

Max waved an indifferent hand. "Scotland, Italy, Africa, Egypt, all over."

"Without announcing your intentions to anyone?"

"No one to announce them to," Max answered with a shrug. "What can I say? Fitz, when the world's calling you, there's no time to stop and smell the roses!"

"Well, you could have mentioned it to someone," Darcy scolded. "Me, Bingley - "

Max stopped dead in his tracks and began to laugh hysterically. "Charles Bingley, how could I not have asked after him? Good 'ol Bing! Is he well? What has he been up to? Is he leg-shackled? Is he in town? Does he still have that bouncy hair?"

"Not so fast!" Darcy chuckled. "Bingley is very well, he's been doing the same things he always does, he is unmarried, he's in town, and his hair is just the same as it has always been."

"Hmm. Not very exciting of Bingley, but that's just the way I like him." This emitted a hearty round of laughter from both gentlemen, only to be broken by another question from Max. "And you, Fitz?"

"My hair is its normal volume, thank you."

"HA!" Max instantly doubled over with laughter. Only once he had recovered was he able to reply, "_Jokes? _You have _jokes? _Who are you and what have you done with Fitzwilliam Darcy?"

Darcy laughed. He couldn't help but find's Max's unwarranted amazement to be anything but amusing. "I have changed a bit, I suppose," he allowed.

Then, all of sudden, Max's demeanor became completely serious. His brows crinkled in thought, and he stared at Darcy very closely through those piercingly dark blue eyes. And just when Darcy was about to express that he felt extremely uncomfortable, Max abruptly turned his head toward the street and ceased with his inspection. "What do you say, Fitz, how about you invite me to your place for a bit of your fine brandy?" Max asked, as casually as if the three minutes of awkward staring had never passed. Darcy replied in the affirmative, and then they remained silent all the way to Darcy House.

* * *

><p>"Oh. No."<p>

"What?" Max asked as he set an expensive piece of statue work that he really should not have been touching back in its place.

"Oh _no no no no no_." Darcy's head dropped face first onto his desk.

Max strode across the room until he was positioned behind Darcy's large leather chair. "What the devil is the matter with you?" he asked, peering over his friends skull to look at the letter that had just fallen from his hands. Max's eyes instantly widened with terror. "…Damn." Darcy raised his head, and the two of them stared in horror at the invitation Darcy House's head butler, Stafford, had just carried in with the post. The crisp square of paper was sealed with bright orange wax, molded in the shape of a tongue of fire, and they both knew what that meant.

A meeting of _Portas Inferni_, an exclusive club scandalously named _Gates of Hell _when its title was translated into english.

Otherwise known as, the-inappopriately-named-group-of-idiots-who-held-semi-annual-meetings-at-which-nothing-at-all-really-occurred.

Darcy shook his head in dismay. Portas Inferni was without a doubt the most idiotic element in his life. Though most private London clubs such as these were usually open to high-ranking peers only, Mr. Darcy and Mr. Fading were forced membership by the fact that they were legacies - meaning that their grandfathers and great-grandfathers before them hadn't had the common sense to remove themselves from the association at the start, and now Fitzwilliam's and Max's membership was considered apart of sacred male tradition. "I should have stayed in Hertfordshire," Darcy groaned.

"Hertfordshire?" Max echoed, his interest instantly piqued. "You didn't tell me you were in Hertfordshire, what were you doing there?"

Darcy sat for a moment in silent indecision. How much should he tell Max? In the end, he decided to simply answer with, "Bingley rented a house there recently, and he asked me to visit."

"Oh, Bing would," Max sighed with a reminiscent smile. "Do you remember when that man convinced him that his social life as he knew it would be over if he did not buy a custom-made pink coat?"

Darcy chuckled amiably, happy to have brought the subject away from Hertfordshire. "No, no, it wasn't pink. Bingley distinctly stated when he wore it to Gunther's that it was _rose_, not pink."

"Ah, that's right, _rose. _How on earth could I have confused the two?" Max replied with a remarkably straight face. Then, in the same teasing tone, he asked, "Speaking of rose, did you or Bingley meet any lovely English roses down in the country?"

Darcy leapt from his chair and faced Max before he even knew what he was doing, chest out and fist curled. "She - "

Max's eyes became about ten times wider. "_She?_ There actually is a she? I had only been joking! Are you getting yourself leg-shackled, Darcy?"

Darcy shut his mouth closed, shocked at the words that had almost popped out of his mouth. He had been about to say, "She is more than that." Up until now Darcy had not allowed himself to seriously think of Elizabeth again, and now that he had his emotions began to hit him full force. God, how he missed her. He missed her kindness and her laughter. He missed having something to look forward to in his day, something to hope for and ponder on. He missed her very presence.

"Darcy, who is this _she? Darcy!_" Max practically shouted in his ear, breaking him out of his reverie.

Darcy tossed his head to the side, carefully contemplating the matter. As much as he would love to unleash his passion for Elizabeth Bennet to public scrutiny, as much as discussing his feelings with a friend would greatly relieve his heartache, he still found that he could not admit his foolishness aloud. "There were one or two fine young ladies there, Max," Darcy finally said, firmly dismissing the question. But Darcy's heart continued to speak. _Only one_, it whispered to just itself. _Only one fine lady in Hertfordshire. Only one fine lady in the world. The only one for me. _

Complete silence filled the air in Darcy's library - Darcy leaning back in his leather chair, trying his best not to think of Elizabeth (and failing), Max perched on the corner of the desk and watching Darcy's face as carefully as one might a scientific experiment.

Finally, Max sighed and took hold of the Portas Inferni invitation once more. "When is it?" he asked, even as he was opening the seal himself. "Friday." Max turned to Darcy. "Do we really have to go?"

"Yes," Darcy said with firm resolve. "Horrible it may be, but it is tradition." His family might have died some time ago, but he still believed in their traditions, and would follow them.

Max's eyes swept upward in reluctant submission. "Fine…

"It's going to be a hell of a time, you know that, don't you?"

* * *

><p>Friday came far too soon.<p>

Mr. Darcy and Mr. Fading strode together on the assigned day to the illustrious home of Cillian Matthew Jacobson III, the extremely rich and highly influential Duke of Fennelsworth and president of Portas Inferni.

And Max complained all the way to Grosvenor Square.

"Do we honestly have to be there? Veilwood is never there! In fact I can't remember the last time he came to a meeting! It won't matter! Can we please go home? Or couldn't we go have a bit of real fun? We could ride, we could shoot, we could play a damned lawn game for all I care! Just leave me be!" and other such things were all the conversation Max provided on the long walk through the fashionable streets of London.

Finally, thankfully, blessedly, Max abstained from whining when they arrived at the front door of Number 6 Grosvenor Square. Darcy knocked thrice upon the door with its big brass knocker, and was greeted with the sight of a stuffy old butler in a turban. "_Welcome_, flames of manly vigor and glorious tradition!" the man cried in a booming voice, the likes of which the likes of which had never before escaped from the mouth of a butler. "May your ashes fill this meeting place with valor!"

The gentlemen stood open-mouthed, until Max finally leaned toward his friend and whispered, "Are we at the wrong house?"

"Say it again, perhaps they didn't hear you!" a youthful voice said in a loud whisper from inside.

The butler cleared his throat and began again. "_Welcome - _!"

"It's alright, we heard you," Darcy said to the butler in a sympathetic tone.

The man did his best not to appear relieved, but Darcy caught the appreciation in his old eyes for not having to scream the strange anecdote yet again.

"I'm guessing there have been some changes around here?" Max inquired, humor now having overcome his shock.

"Yes, indeed, a great many changes!" the owner of the youthful voice cheered as he emerged from behind the turbaned butler. "Do come in, do come in! I am _Winston Jacobson!_" the boy said with an elegant bow. And then, clearly in great reluctance, he added, "Cillian's younger brother."

Darcy entered the house, with Max following behind him and chuckling under his breath all the way. Darcy could not help but bite his lip in an attempt to keep himself from joining Max in laughter. The poor lad looked to be the awkward age of seventeen, with freckles covering every square inch of his face and ears the size of saucers. He was wearing an enormous turban, which apparently was the newly adopted uniform of Portas Inferni. Winston Jacobson was quite obviously a young man who was looking for some mode of responsibility, and ridiculous as it was, he had found his calling amongst the foolishness of the _Gates of Hell_.

Darcy smiled at Winston, sympathetic of a young boy's woes. He himself had knew what it was like to feel foolish and lost…and hopelessly awkward. "A pleasure to meet you, sir. I am Fitzwilliam Darcy, and this is Maxwell Fading."

"Howdeedoo," Max murmured with an awkward wave of his hand.

"An honor!" Winston returned with an exuberant smile, clearly delighted to be so addressed. "Titles?"

"None," Max answered. "We're both esquires."

"It's no matter, anyhow," Darcy assured him. "You may call me Darcy, if you like."

Winston was clearly elated as he answered, "And you may call me Winston." Then they both turned to Max.

…

Darcy elbowed Max in the ribs, causing him to grunt and finally mutter, "You may call me Max."

"And _you _may call me Winston, as well," the young Jacobson replied. "Oh! But what are we doing loitering about? Come, come, give your coats to Dudley," - at this he motioned to the turbaned butler - "and follow me. Now, my brother has allowed me to make some _minor _changes to Portas Inferni. First off, there's… Never mind, you'll see once you're upstairs!"

* * *

><p>The amount of shock and terror that was felt upon Darcy and Max's entering the room could only be expressed by their simultaneous utterance of, "Good…<em>God<em>."

The once stylish and decidedly masculine upstairs parlor of Cillian Jacobson was bedecked in jewel-toned, sheer…shawls or something or other. Hundreds of them! - or so it appeared to Darcy's horrified eyes - draped across the walls like some type of sparkling…well…drapery! And the long, menacing mahogany table that traditionally served as the Portas Inferni members' site of torture had been replaced with what had to be a twelve foot rug, encircled by heavily beaded pillows. The Duke of Fennelsworth sat on a large pillow at the head of the rug, his feet under him, and his face decidedly set in a murderous expression.

"Are we in hell, Fennelsworth?" Max asked in a whisper.

The duke sighed. "I believe we are beyond the gates by now, yes."

Winston suddenly materialized in the doorway, looking all aflutter with excitement. "Isn't it marvelous? Cillian and I thought it would be a fine idea to Indianize the club."

"_You_," Fennelsworth instantly asserted. "_You _thought it would be a fine idea."

"Do take your seats, gentlemen," Winston continued, either ignoring or not having heard his brother's statement. "You will be sitting in the two empty spots between Sir Colin Stanford and the Earl of Sigma. And _I_," he went on as he merrily jaunted around the rug, "will sit at my brother's right hand, because he has officially made me assistant president of the club."

"Assistant _to _the president," Fennelsworth said pointedly.

Winston blushed and muttered, "Yes, yes, it's all the same thing. Anyway, when the last person arrives, we can begin."

Darcy and Max took their seats on the large pillows. While Max had decided to completely barricade himself from any of the surrounding company, Darcy turned to the fellow members next to him. "Hello, Stanford. Sigma."

"Afternoon, Darcy!" Colin Stanford hooted as he finished off his glass of wine. "It's been ages! Oh!" he gasped, pointing his forefinger to a spot under Darcy's left eye, and causing Darcy himself to flinch. "Are those wrinkles? They are! They are wrinkles! _Ohhhh wrinkles!_"

Darcy's lips tightened in annoyance. Sir Colin Stanford was the baronet of the group, the one who both drank and ate too much, yet somehow managed to keep a slim figure and a sturdy gait. Stanford was probably Darcy's least favorite of all his fellow members of Portas Inferni, and it took all of his willpower to dismiss the man's behavior with a simple, "It's good to see you as well, Stanford," rather than knock some sense into his bloated, drunken head. It seemed unfair somehow, that a man such as Colin Stanford could live his life irresponsible and free of care, whereas Darcy was forced to exist with mounds of duties to carry atop his shoulders.

Sir Colin stuffed a large biscuit in his mouth and called out, "Missed you, Darce!" and then proceeded to eat all the duke's food and swallow gallons of his spirits.

Darcy then turned to Phillip Simons, the Earl of Sigma. The man was middle-aged, but was still known for being quite the favorite amongst the ladies who willingly lifted their skirts. Phillip Simons was himself very brooding - although apparently not quite so brooding as Darcy, - causing everyone from simpering young misses on the husband hunt, to schoolboy dandies who wished to gain a brooding reputation of their own to flock to his side at any perceived moment.

"Hello, Sigma," Darcy repeated with a nod of his head.

Sigma only nodded in return. The man wasn't much for talking - to men at least; when it came to women Darcy honestly didn't care to know what form of speech the earl used. Darcy could definitely respect silence, seeing as he was so fond of it himself.

Darcy then turned his body forward, fully expecting to see the portly Earl of Preston seated across from him, only to be greeted with the sight of a young…well…dog-faced sort of gentleman, if one was forced to be truthful.

"Hello, old boy!" the man said with an amiable smile as he held out his hand.

Darcy stared at the man's hand as if it were a twelve-eyed toad, completely unsure of what to do with it. Had they met before? Darcy was fairly certain he would remember this man. The gentleman, whose hand was still out and ready for shaking, had very thick skin that drooped in certain areas of his face, giving him the appearance of a hound, or perhaps a spent horse after a long ride. A fat, spent horse. And yet there was a blissful sparkle in the corner of his youthful eyes that gave Darcy the impression he was quite possibly the happiest, most content man on earth - dog- and/or horse-faced or no. He couldn't help but admire that.

After a time the gentleman finally realized he had made a mistake and drew back his hand, a heavy blush rising in his saggy cheeks. "Oh, deuce take it, I haven't introduced myself! I am Viscount Buttercup!"

The entire room was an eruption of hysterical laughter.

Max Fading looked as if he were having a difficulty breathing, sputtering "What? _What?_" after every short gasp of air. Winston Jacobson was _heeheehee_-ing at an _accelerando _pace, slow at the start and then gradually quickening until the poor lad looked nonsensical. Sir Colin Stanford was definitely the worst of the bunch, screeching and chortling loud _BAHAHA_'s as he fell backwards onto the floor, bellowing mid-_BAHAHA_, "_That's the fourth time I've heard it today and it's still hilarious!_" Even Fennelsworth and Sigma, who were surely the most serious of the bunch, were biting their lips and chuckling under their breath. Poor Viscount Buttercup looked as if he wanted to melt into the floor, and yet they all kept laughing.

All except Darcy.

Not that it wasn't funny. Hell, Darcy would be the first to admit that it was hilarious under normal circumstances. But these circumstances were not normal. He couldn't be certain as to why, but the unfortunate viscount had caused Darcy to develop a deep feeling of sympathy - this toward a strange man he hardly knew! And, heaven help him, but he could not laugh. Elizabeth wouldn't have liked it, he suddenly reflected. She wouldn't have laughed were she in the same situation. She would have been kind and gentle. And Darcy felt himself longing to act that same way toward the viscount.

"It is I who should be introducing myself to you, then," Darcy intoned genially as he offered his own hand to Viscount Buttercup. "I am Fitzwilliam Darcy, but you may call me Darcy, if you like."

For a moment the viscount stared at him in shock, mouth open and eyes wide. Then in an instant he took Darcy's proffered hand and shook it gratefully. "Thank you, Darcy! My name is Harold Buttercup," - here the viscount ignored Sir Colin's relapsing hoot of, _The first name makes it even better!_ as he continued - " but you may call me Harry, of course! I became a member after the Earl of Preston…." Harry's voice trailed off as he lowered his eyes to the ground.

When it became obvious that there was to be no continuation of that statement, Darcy prompted the viscount with, "After the Earl of Preston…"

"…Died," Harry mumbled sadly with a shake of his head.

"Really?" Darcy asked in disbelief. "How?" He hadn't particularly liked the man, but -

"Hanged," Sir Colin Stanford uttered with a morbid succinctness that instantly broke through the barrier of Darcy's thoughts.

"I - I'm sorry?" Darcy stuttered.

"_BAHAHA_ I'm only kidding!" Sir Colin hollered amidst a sea of triumphant laughter. "I can't believe you believed that!" And then with a nonchalance that left Darcy startled, he finished with, "He died because he was old and fat," and returned to eating whatever scraps of food he had left on the table.

…

"Anywho," Winston Jacobson continued cheerfully, "when the Earl of Veilwood arrives we may begin the meeting."

"He's not going to arrive," Fennelsworth droned as he motioned for his brother to take his seat.

"What? Why not?"

"Veilwood hasn't attended a meeting since the Battle of the Nile."

Max's face turned white with horror. "Did this club still exist then?"

The duke was not amused. "It's a figure of speech," he very near growled.

Max shrugged. "Not any figure of speech I've ever heard - "

"_Anywho!_" Winston interjected yet again. The boy's smile was suddenly so broad as to be frightening. "We'll just begin the meeting then! We are going to start with the chant!"

Darcy was almost certain all their mouths fell open at the exact moment.

"If you look under your seat cushions," Winston instructed as he lifted his pillow, "you will each find a copy of the brand new _cantu portas inferni!_"

The men stood, albeit reluctantly, and retrieved the slips of paper from under their seats. All except Sir Colin, who was obviously too lazy to actually lift himself from his seat to retrieve the paper, and somehow ended up flat on his back for what had to be the billionth time that evening.

"Alright!" Winston clapped his hands together with glee as he took his seat. "Let us begin."

With a long, world weary moan, they all began the chant:

_Human kindlers of the Gates of Hell, _

_Porsuit ignis adere!_

_Portas Inferni! Coniungere!_

The exclamation points remained strictly apart of the text - no one but Winston was willing to recite the chant with very much animation.

"Excellent, excellent!" Winston cheered. "Now it is time for the relaxation exercise. If you will all lie on the mats we've had placed on the other end of the room?"

All the men remained seated.

The Duke of Fennelsworth sighed in resignation. "I had them imported, so if you would all just…"

After several grumbles of "Alright, alright," they were all lying face upward on the Indian-style mats.

Once the curtains were drawn and the candlelight extinguished, Max, who was directly to Darcy's left, turned to him and whispered, "Suppose we're raped."

Darcy chuckled and replied, "It is the Gates of Hell. Who knows what can happen."

The two of them bursted into side-splitting laughter that ceased with Winston's magisterial bellow of "_SILENCE!_"

And then the nightmare began.

* * *

><p>"Breathe in… Breathe out…"<p>

Darcy was growing quite sick of breathing, something he had never before believed possible.

"Breathe in," Winston hummed _again_, "and then breathe out…"

"If I breathe in and out one more time," Max grumbled, "my lungs are going to be officially worn out. Perhaps I could donate them to some type of scientist…"

Almost as if he had heard Max's complaint, Winston crooned, "And one last time - breathe in… And breathe out! Marvelous, marvelous! Give yourselves a round of applause!"

The room was decidedly silent.

"Right," Winston said with an awkward cough. "Well, I'm going to step out for a moment. Our next event is the flexibility exercise. You all just keep relaxing, while I find someone to retrieve the stretchers!"

The door closed behind Winston Jacobson and his funny turban with a resolute _click. _

The men on the ground remained completely silent…

Until,

"I wonder," Max murmured into the quiet atmosphere of the room, "just how he means to stretch us…"

And then they all burst out laughing - not the same cruel sniggering that they had issued upon the hearing of Viscount Buttercup's name, but laughs of true mirth, that they all shared in friendship. Darcy had never thought he could find friendship among this set, but as he looked over at the Duke of Fennelsworth - the man who had surely despaired for years over his being the president of their ridiculous club, and was at this moment cackling so loudly he could probably be heard across Mayfair - he realized that stupid as it may be, they all played a part in _Portas Inferni. _They were all his friends, in a strange, nonsense sort of way. And wasn't until just then that Darcy realized how desperately he needed friends at this lonely time in his life.

Once the laughter had subsided, Fennelsworth sat upward and said, "Thank you all for humoring Winston. He's been wanting something to do with his life, other than school and 'this boring London stuff,' as he puts it. He's very excited to have a purpose in the club." They all nodded, a few of them offering a sympathetic murmur of "Certainly," or "Of course," and then the duke added in a mischievous tone, "I'm saving this as an embarrassing story to tell his future wife." They _all _chimed in at that, creating that interesting hodgepodge of concurrences that together sounded like inscrutable sea of masculine murmurs.

Sir Colin also lifted himself from his mat. "Speaking of wives," he turned suggestively to the side of the room where the Earl of Sigma was lying, "how's the old girl doing these days, Sigma?"

Darcy sat up in surprise. "You were married, Sigma?"

The earl shoved himself upward as well, still looking as though he did not appreciate Sir Colin's previous reference to his wife as 'the old girl,' but smiling all the same. "Indeed, just four weeks ago. To Miss Jean Crane."

"Ah, the Marquis of Levensey's daughter. I offer you my congratulations, Sigma." Darcy would have gone across the room and given the earl's hand a shake, but he was honestly stuck in his sedate position, so he punctuated his congratulations with a smile and a nod and laid back down upon his mat.

"Thank you, Darcy. She is a treasure." One would assume that the earl's praise of his wife's worth had been merely perfunctory. In their day and age, marriage generally had little to do with with love for another and _all to do_ with love for wealth and status, both of which the Earl of Sigma had certainly received in his marriage to the daughter of a marquis. And yet there was almost palpable warmth in the earl's voice that was unmistakeable. No one needed to look at Sigma's face to tell that he was in love with his wife.

"I cannot wait to tell her about about all this," the earl finished with a chuckle, causing the group to join in another round of companionable laughter - and leaving Darcy with an opportunity for contemplation.

Phillip Simons, the Earl of Sigma, the man who had spent his entire life mercilessly seducing random women with his icy eyes and broodish behavior - he had found love! And he was happy. And Darcy couldn't help but think…

_I want that. _

He wanted someone to be happy with. A woman who lifted his soul when she walked into a room. A woman who spoke and melted away all his worry and heartache. A woman who could challenge his mind and lighten his heart. When Fitzwilliam Darcy married he knew he wouldn't expect perfection. He merely wanted someone in his life he could cherish as the last thing he saw at night, and then delight that she was first image to greet his every morning.

And only then did he allow himself to picture the face of Elizabeth Bennet. Every lovely detail.

Up until now, Darcy had avoided - very well, _attempted to avoid - _all thoughts of, images of, and fantasies of Elizabeth. But now he found himself sketching in the black recesses of his mind each and every line that made up her face. The delicate curve of each of her cheekbones, the decided point of her jaw, the adorable pair of speckles that rested on the tip of her nose. He could see it all as if she were standing there before him. But it was her eyes that his memory could recall the best. Elizabeth possessed this beautiful twinkling element in her dark eyes that revealed itself whenever she made a witty remark or when something she admired appeared before her. It was something he had seen what felt like a thousand times during his stay in Hertfordshire, and yet each time it occurred - right in the exact same spot in the top corner of the almost black irises of her eyes - it was if the tumble he felt in his stomach and the clenching of his heart were something new. Darcy would love to wake to see that twinkle in her eye. Every single morning. And he was beginning to wonder if Elizabeth realized just how much he would worship her were he given leave to do so.

No. She was sitting in her little country house without a clue. And he would never marry her. He could never marry her. He would never feel the way the Earl of Sigma felt being married to his Jean. He would never come home to Elizabeth, never be able to tell her how ridiculous his club was, never hold her as he told her stories about Max's fear of being raped or Sir Colin Stanford's tendency to fall flat on his arse every five seconds of the meeting. He could see it all perfectly in his vast imagination, but in reality it was impossible. She was of too modest an income, too low a station. Which meant Darcy would have to find some other woman to marry… And it nearly killed him.

Because he simply could not picture it with anyone else.

* * *

><p>Later that night, Darcy laid asleep in his bed, the image of Elizabeth still fresh in his mind.<p>

He dreamt.

Vividly.

_He was in bed at his home in Derbyshire. Pemberley was most definitely his favorite place in all the world, with its heart-stopping landscapes and peaceful atmosphere. His attraction to the area was somehow magical, especially at nighttime, when every tree and rutted hill was awash in sparkling blue moonlight. He knew it was the same moon as everywhere else in the world, but at Pemberley it looked different. And as the moon's rays filtered through Darcy's bedroom window and onto the pure white of his bedsheets, he awoke. _

_And he was under the gaze of a pair of dark, shimmering eyes that simply made him melt. _

_Darcy sagged into the bedsheets as he released a moan from the very center of his chest, took Elizabeth in his arms, and achingly touched his lips to hers. He wanted to inhale her, consume her, and he wanted to give himself to every inch of her soul. She made the universe better. He just knew it. He felt it in the spinning whirlpool of bliss that was his mind and heart as he moved his mouth to caress Elizabeth's pale shoulders. He was better with her than he was without her. _

_And they fit together perfectly. _

_He returned his lips to hers, and then gradually slid his mouth across her cheek, to her ear. Her hands were clinging to his neck, tousling his hair, and it drove him absolutely wild. So much so he could barely speak. All he could do with murmur into her ear, "Elizabeth… I… I…"_

_"I love so many things about you," she suddenly whispered into his neck. "Every day of my life, I want to share with you." Feeling a joyous sense of rapture that he couldn't control, Darcy took her hand and touched her wrist to his lips. "Every day, every hour." He softly kissed her palm. "Every minute." He touched his tongue to the sensitive hollow between her fingers, then returned his mouth to hers in order to catch her moan in his mouth. "Every second," she whispered against his lips. _

_"You make my world bearable," he said, looking at her with his heart in his eyes as he nestled his nose next to hers. "I look at the sky and it's bluer, everything I see is better than it used to be, and I can finally smile. _

_"Even," he continued as he held his hand to her cheek, "if I were trapped in the farthest corner of the fires of hell, I could smile, knowing that in another life...you had been mine." _


	12. Chapter 12

_Author's note: So sorry for the delay, everyone! It is now my sworn duty to work quickly and diligently so that these chapters can be posted sooner. I hope you will all forgive me! Just a quick reminder before you read this chapter: If you require any assistance in remembering past events in Mr. Darcy's life that are mentioned, you may easily return to chapter eight of this story for more information!_

_Thank you all for reading!  
><em>

* * *

><p>Chapter XII<p>

Something Missing

A few weeks later Darcy was casually walking through Mayfair on his way to Bingley's London house. He was making almost daily visits there, his main purpose always being to carefully observe his friend's behavior. Was Bingley depressed, or was he content? Was he still pining over this girl, or had he seen reason? And at every visit Bingley greeted him with the same sad smile that had instantly repressed his normally irrepressible joy the moment Darcy had said, _I think it would be best if you gave her up. _

_You're right, Darce, _Bingley had said with the melancholy upturn of his lips. _It was so silly of me. _

Darcy's thoughts were interrupted by the sound of someone whispering his name. "Mr. Darcy," a feminine voice called in a hush.

Eyebrows raised in wonder, Darcy cautiously followed the voice around the corner.

Faster than the blink of an eye, Caroline Bingley materialized from out of the shadows, clinging to his arm in distress. "Oh, Mr. Darcy, thank heavens!"

Darcy was quite honestly nonplussed - and not only because Miss Bingley had near given him a heart attack. The willful woman, who throughout their entire acquaintance had kept a constant ladylike composure, was now uncommonly pale and ragged, eyes fearful and limbs weak. Darcy was almost worried for her. Almost. "What in the world is the matter, Caroline?"

Miss Bingley used all the energy in her power to say two vengeful words: "_She's back._"

Darcy sighed. If the woman was going to put on a melodrama, she could at least be a bit more specific. "Who is back, Caroline?"

She looked at him as if he were the worst sort of fool. "Who?! Jane Bennet, of course! She is here - the insolent little thing, - staying with some dreadful set of relatives in Gracechurch Street, of all places. Miss Bennet sent me a letter about a fortnight ago - which I ignored, of course. And then she had the impertinence to call on me at the house - just now!"

He did not like where this was going. "And was Bingley there?"

"Oh, thank heavens no. He was out doing something or other."

"But you did receive her?"

"Well, of course I did! - no matter how little I wished to converse with the chit."

Before Darcy could become angered by the reference to Elizabeth's older sister as a chit, he quickly diverted his attention by leading Caroline further down the street and away from staring passersby. "So," he continued as he walked with her, "what exactly do you intend _me _to do about this?"

"Anything! Occupy his time! Take him to do whatever it is you gentlemen enjoy - ride, shoot, gamble, drink, I hardly care which! You could even take him out of the city! - out of the country! Just keep him away from _her_! Thank heavens I rid myself of her company soon enough," Miss Bingley continued with an arrogantly ladylike sniff. "I made some paltry excuse about expecting your sister for a visit, although of course I know she is at Pemberley." Miss Bingley laughed and smiled confidentially at him, as if she believed him to be party to her amusement. "But I suppose what she doesn't know won't kill her."

Darcy could feel his lips tighten into a grim line. There were many things he could tolerate; but being ordered about by a priggish little shrew was not one of them. Nor was standing idly by while his innocent little sister's name was under the mercy of a cruel woman's prevarications. He utterly hated this! He hated deceiving his greatest friend in the world, he hated being involved in someone else's personal affairs, and most of all he hated being wrapped around Caroline Bingley's finger. _Well, _he thought. _No more. _

"That's it, Caroline," he very near growled.

Caroline continued without hearing him. "I was thinking Charles may like to visit our family up north and - "

"_I said that is it, Caroline._"

"Then perhaps - I'm sorry, what did you say? What's it?"

"I want no part in it."

Now that she had begun listening to him, she appeared exasperated. "You want no part in _what_, Mr. Darcy?" she cried so loudly, Darcy feared half the county had heard her.

"_In this blasted scheme!_" he replied in a discreet whisper. "This is Bingley's life and I won't impede him any further. Let him do just as he pleases."

Miss Bingley stared at him in wide-eyed shock. "But, Mr. Darcy, if we allow Charles to marry that - that - trollop - ! "

If he were a violent man he could have slapped her. "Stay out of it."

"But - "

"Just _stay out of it_," he repeated with a deathly even voice. "If you can manage to keep silent and leave well enough alone, perhaps I shall still be able to escort you home with a smile."

Caroline visibly blanched under his cold stare. She opened her mouth as if she were about to speak, then resolutely closed it. _Good choice, _Darcy thought.

"Would you like to come inside for a bit?" Miss Bingley inquired tremulously when they reached the front steps of Ashburn, Bingley's tasteful London home.

_I'd rather go to hell, _he thought with a mental grimace. But what he really said was, "No, thank you, I'm afraid I have another engagement." There was no engagement, but it was the only excuse he could possibly formulate without appearing rude. One didn't say to one's best friend's sister, _I'm sorry, but I truly cannot stand the sight of you._

Caroline appeared vexed and disappointed, but said not another word as the butler let her into the house and closed the door behind them. Darcy turned around, and walked back to his own London home.

And had his things packed.

And ran away to Pemberley.

* * *

><p>Well, no, "ran away" wasn't quite the proper phrase. "Running away" gave the situation a rather cowardly hue. He was… He was…<p>

Well, he was running away.

But, truly, what choice did he have? Darcy quite simply found himself bereft of the power to remain in Bingley's company, speak with him as the truest of friends speaks, knowing the holder of his heart could be a mere walk away. Or, Good God, they may encounter her together. What would occur between them after they met Jane Bennet in the park one day, and the woman had pointedly mentioned that Caroline knew of her presence in London? Darcy would then have to tell him the truth, that he had plotted and schemed and worked with his sister against his interests. And kind, loving Bingley, one of the rare Darcy friendships that had withstood the spans of time - Bingley would hate him. He didn't see how their relationship could survive so large a blow.

The carriage made a jolting turn toward the line of ancient oaks that would eventually lead to Pemberley. Though fear may have been his primary inducement for escaping to his Derbyshire estate, Darcy truly had begun to miss and to yearn for the peaceful solitude only home could bring. And _Pemberley _was home to him, not Netherfield and certainly not Darcy House in London. Darcy's sole desire at this point in time was to relieve the dangerously taut strings of his once fairly faculties. He could envision the metaphoric instrument fairly well in his mind - a harp entitled **SANITY**. If there was one more discordant note struck, he knew the strings would _snap _and any possibility at attaining harmony would be no more.

Darcy firmly focused his attention on the fresh, green evidence of nature's beauty that continued to pass in a blurring rush of speed outside the carriage window. He was waiting for that enchanting moment when the monotonous line of trees would, at the perfect second, cease and reveal the endearing sight of his only home. They would greet each other like old friends, he and Pemberley. Steady companions that had been separated from each other's company for far too long, and were blissfully enraptured to be together again. Hidden behind the heavy overhanging of the trees' leaves, Darcy spotted the glimmer of the sun's rays shining on the rim of the pond and knew the time was near; and he reveled in the excited agitation of each slowly passing minute as the carriage wheels brought him nearer and nearer his first glimpse of the estate. He clutched at the seat of the carriage in anticipation, mentally counting down the seconds, and then…

He saw it.

And felt nothing.

There was no relief, or elation, or any of the emotions Darcy had expected. He possessed only an unthinking, impassive brain as he stared blankly at the home that suddenly seemed less satisfying now.

Darcy turned his body forward in disappointment and fixed an unseeing gaze on the interior of the carriage. There was something missing, an undetectable blemish present to tarnish the sense of belonging normally so tangible at the sight of the estate. What was it?

Darcy looked out of the window once more. Everything appeared to be just the same. The thriving flora and sturdy oaks were well in tact and beautiful as ever, and the perfect edifice of Pemberley itself was as incandescently white as it had always been.

What could it possibly be?

* * *

><p>"Master Fitzwilliam, you've returned without a wife!"<p>

Apparently, Mrs. Reynolds knew precisely what she thought was missing.

Darcy entered the main hall of Pemberley and embraced the well-loved housekeeper. "Mrs. Reynolds, will you ever tire of calling me Master Fitzwilliam?" he teased.

"Never. In these old eyes you are still that precious little boy who locked himself away in the library. Literally," she added with a playful pinch of his cheeks, "_locked _yourself in the library. Your father was forced to threaten he would forever expel your reading privileges unless you unlocked the door and ate something. And you know what you said to that? 'I could take my meals here,' you said!"

"I remember well," Darcy chuckled, as he smiled affectionately at the woman who was to him more of a second mother than a servant.

"Oh, well I'm sure you'll want to rest after your long journey. However, because _someone _did not see fit to inform me of his arrival, Fitzwilliam Darcy…" Mrs. Reynolds trailed off and darted a matronly glance of accusation at him. "Your room isn't nearly as prepared as I would have liked it. I could - "

"The room will be fine in any state, Mrs. Reynolds," Darcy assured her. "Regardless, I would like to see Georgie before I settle in. Where is…?" The far off sounds of a pianoforte met his ears. "Ah." Darcy smiled. It hadn't occurred to him how potently he had missed his sister until that moment. Perhaps that was the missing piece to the Pemberley jigsaw - the presence of his sister.

Darcy immediately climbed the grand staircase and made his way through the gilded hallways of Pemberley. Nearly the whole of the building's interior walls - saving only the bedrooms, sitting rooms, and parlors - were painted the purest of whites; and the ceilings were so high and the halls so wide, it was as though every step Darcy took brought him farther into the clouds. The floor was lined by a simply styled, yet elaborately patterned deep red carpet, and every antique hanging and side table was polished and sparkling. It was peaceful, it was quiet, it was neat and fine - precisely the way he liked it. And yet there was still a lingering sense that the beauty of home - peaceful, quiet, neat or fine as it may be - had suddenly become incomplete. If he looked closely enough, Darcy almost suspected he would spot a gaping hole in one of the doorways so that he could say, "Oh, that's it!" However, the double doors that led him into the music room were secure and fully constructed, as he slowly turned the brass knob and was greeted with the awe-inspiring sound of beautiful music.

Darcy stepped into the music room on silent feet, looking with nostalgic eyes on the figure of his little sister seated at the pianoforte. Georgie was completely oblivious to his presence, so enraptured was she in the rise and fall of the notes emitting from the her prized instrument. Her posture was so refined and womanly as her graceful hands touched each key with the tenderness of a true artist; and Darcy could hardly believe just how much his little girl had grown up.

_"William, I'm so sorry! I broke it! I didn't mean to!"_

_Darcy sat at the piano beside his little sister. "No, no, darling," he assured her as he placed an affection arm around her shoulders, "You didn't break it, you merely pressed too many keys at once." _

_It was shortly after the death of their mother, and the elder Mr. Darcy had lately become accustomed to shutting himself away in his study and bolting the doors from the entire world, including his downcast children. Sweet five-year-old Georgiana had taken the passing of her mama in a harsh yet confused manner. She had cried in a voice of petulant rage that she didn't understand what had happened; but now the shock of the incident had worn away, she rarely had a voice at all. Darcy believed it his most profound duty to entertain poor Georgie as much as possible; so, when the girl's sad, thin lips had formed a sudden smile at the prospect of learning to play the pianoforte, her brother had wasted no time leading her to the music room and seating her in front of the black and ivory keys. _

_"But aren't I supposed to press many of the keys?" _

_"Well… Yes." Darcy paused, considering his next instructions. "Not like this." Here he slammed his right hand palm down onto the keys. "Like this." Then, he relaxed the same hand, and began to play a peaceful melody, his fingers dancing across the keys with the lightest touch. And, suddenly, the unspoken tension that had seemed to completely envelop both siblings in grief for so long - it was gone, replaced by the sound of Georgiana's innocent laughter as she placed her hands atop his. _

_"Oh!" she gasped in wonderment as she spread her tiny fingers so that they were atop his own. "Your hands are so big! And mine are so small!" _

_"Well, I wouldn't worry about that," Darcy replied with a smile. "You'll be a young woman soon enough. And one with pretty, graceful hands that are made expressly for playing the pianoforte."_

_Georgie giggled at the prospect, and then turned to face him. "William? You're a man now, aren't you?"_

_The straightforward manner of her question stunned him for a moment. "I… I - I suppose so."_

_"Good. Because…" She blanched and looked down at the skirts of her mourning dress. "I think I'm going to need you for a while."_

_Darcy froze in pure horror. He knew his precocious little sister to be right, but what a responsibility! What a crushing weight to be hauled upon his shoulders! And yet, he thought as he looked down at sweet Georgie - who had already begun to memorize the placement of his hands when he had played - it was a challenge he was willing to take on, and with all his heart. Because already he felt a bit like her father, and she his little girl._

Darcy's mind returned to the present moment as the very last key was struck. With a quick shake of his head to clear his brain from its dazed state, Darcy slowly began to approach the pianoforte, clapping his hands in rapturous applause. "Brava!" he cheered. "Brava, brava!"

Georgiana turned in surprise. "William!"

"I'm sorry, but I haven't any roses to throw onto the stage."

"Oh, Will!" She practically hurtled herself from her seat in order to embrace him. "You're home! Why didn't you tell me? Oh, I've missed you, brother!"

"And I you, Georgie." They remained in this pose for perhaps longer than was necessary, held captive in each other's arms by the sadness of their past parting, and the consequent onslaught of sibling affection now felt at their reunion. Darcy cradled Georgie's head as delicately as if she were a child still; perhaps entertaining the impossible notion that if he held her thus she would cease becoming a young lady, and his little girl would return to him.

Eventually, Georgiana pulled herself free from his arms and motioned for him to sit beside her on the settee. "How are you? What have you seen - what have you done? Was Netherfield very nice? Did you attend many parties? Oh, tell me everything!"

Darcy chuckled at his sister's exuberance, partly in amusement, but mostly out of joy. After the fiasco with Wickham, Georgiana had become rather sullen. Now she seemed to have returned to the happy girl he had once known, and he could not be more pleased. Her cheeks were as sunny as her curled blonde hair, and her slight figure was healthy and lively. She was merry and talkative and bubbling over with confidence, just as a young lady should be. But best of all, Darcy thought with a grateful smile, she was comfortable with him again.

"Slow down, Georgie, slow down!" he pleaded. "I will tell you all." Georgiana fidgeted about with excitement, and then remained perfectly still as she allowed him to tell his tale.

For the most part, Darcy told her everything. He described Netherfield and the surrounding Hertfordshire countryside in great detail, he told her of the assembly they had attended and then the ball Bingley had given. He said that he had mostly read and did go riding from time to time, both of which statements were basically true. Yes, that was really it. Nothing more to speak of.

Other than that obsession with a vexing country girl who hadn't a penny, of course.

"Oh, William, you mustn't end the story like that!" Georgiana protested.

"Like what?"

"That 'yes, that was really it' nonsense! _Something _else must have occurred during your travels besides reading and horseback riding!" Actually, he could think of a number of things, but none he was willing to mention. "What about the people?" Georgie continued excitedly. "What were they like, describe their personalities to me."

Darcy considered his answer…and then his head began to spin. "Exhausting," he sighed. The constant jumping and giggling and prattling! It had been almost as bad as London. Oh, he thought he would fall ill just thinking about it. "I'm afraid I cannot be suited for their ranks, Georgie. They probably thought me the worst of Grecian statues, standing silent while they all spun about like delusional tops."

Georgie stared at his frowning face in question. "I'm sorry, I don't quite understand…"

"Nothing, nothing," he insisted, instantly regretting he'd mentioned his woes at all. "The Hertfordshire people were very…obliging."

"Oh," she muttered, sounding a bit dubious. "Well, I'm glad to hear that." Her voice than dropped into lower registers, as if she knew her next words should not be uttered, but regardless had decided to take her chances_. "_What were the ladies like, Will? I shouldn't pry, but I would so like to see you happy - "

"What makes you think I am unhappy?" he practically barked at her.

He had expected Georgie to falter, to grow cautious at the force in his voice, but she held her ground and continued to pester him. It actually made him quite proud. "I am your little sister. And, therefore, I have the right to inform you that you worry me, Will. I should so like to see you settled. Now, I'm not saying you have to throw yourself at the feet of the next woman you see! I merely think you should look. And you should strive to find a woman who…suits what you are, Will. Someone with intelligence, affection, wit, humor - a woman who will turn that menacing glower of yours into a smile. A woman…you could _love_. Will, have you truly never met a single woman who fits that description?"

Darcy swallowed…thought…and chose not to answer. "Play me something, will you, Georgie?"

Georgiana appeared most disappointed. However, her brother's tone had clearly stated that the subject would be dropped; and so she remained silent, and seated herself once more at the pianoforte.

Darcy remained in his sister's company for many hours before determining it was time he went to his rooms and freshened himself up. He had found his reuniting with Georgie to be perhaps the most enjoyable time he'd had in months. But -

He still felt that something was not right.

* * *

><p>Darcy entered the family wing of Pemberley and turned hesitantly toward the master's chambers. He had never slept there, and never would. The majority of English society would find this idea preposterous! The master of the house, still occupying the room of his adolescence? How bizarre! How uncouth! However, Darcy would quite prefer being looked down the noses of London prudes, rather than spend his every night two feet from the rug where his father had once lain dead. He supposed most firstborn sons slept in the very <em>beds <em>in which their fathers had passed on, but he simply could not tolerate the eeriness of it. Living with the daily reminder of the disrespect and vengeance with which he had spoken to his father, that day when they had parted…forever…

It was too much heartache to bear.

And yet he still returned to the late Mr. Darcy's quarters at the start of his every return to Pemberley. It was a ritualistic penance, almost. A somewhat spiritual instant of flagellation for the harm he had caused - the death for which he continued to feel so responsible.

Darcy slowly turned the knob…and entered.

The door was opened to an instant flurry of dust and grime that continued to permeate the air of William Darcy's old living space. Every piece of furniture stood exactly where it had been the day of the man's demise, only now they were all hidden under musty old sheets. The grime-ridden damask curtains were decidedly shut against the afternoon sunlight, the majority of the room's illumination provided solely by the comparatively bright hallway outside. On the far wall, in the vicinity of the now shrouded four poster bed, a perfect silhouette of Darcy's figure stood outlined in the light emitting from the doorway. He was quite large in stature, and the over exaggerated dimensions of the shadow made him look even more the giant. A sad, pitiful giant, just as old papa had been in the last years of his life. And Darcy could have sworn that if he moved just so, raising a hand to his lips, and allowing his head to loll slowly back as if he were languidly polishing off the last drops of a fine French spirit…he was his father.

He could never allow himself to become that type of man. _Would _never allow himself. That was certain. And so, with one last wary glance at the blanketed liquor cabinet - the one that held all of Father's most expensive and satisfying alcohols - Darcy left the scene of his self-flogging.

Sometimes, just picturing the despoiled sight of his sad, dead father, sprawled in an agonizing heap on the floor - he _really hated himself._

* * *

><p>Darcy's quarters were only a few doors away from those of his late father and mother. His rooms were nowhere near as large as the master's chambers, but they were cozy and familiar. The bedroom itself was perfect for a university lad who was still wet behind the ears. There was a large window that allowed a goodly amount of light for reading small print, a serviceable desk on which to write and study, and - perhaps the favorite among all students - there were the sinfully comfortable mattress and chair cushions, the kinds that were made perfect for afternoon naps. There was no true sense of order in the furniture - seats facing alternate directions, unkempt bookshelves, little to no pictures or decorations of any kind. Now twenty-eight years of age, Darcy had begun to feel he'd outgrown the indolent atmosphere of his bedchambers; but, overall, he was content with what he had, and really asked for no more.<p>

He entered his dressing room, weary, but still avid for an escape from the dust he'd managed to collect on his journey. Some of the maids had been kind enough to have prepared a warm tub of water for him, and Darcy began to eagerly shed of his clothing. He needed and very well deserved a bit of relaxation. He was dirty, he was exhausted, and he was still plagued by a damning sense that _something __- _he was still uncertain as to what, - _something _was quite simply off.

And then, just as Darcy was about to step into his bath, something caught his eye. A small box he often packed with him on his travels, wherein he kept a random assortment of various personal knickknacks. Old papers with which he had marked his places in books, buttons that had fallen from his undershirts and had never been mended back on - because, really, he didn't think it necessary to bother the servants over one little button - some small, pointless writings he had penned when he'd felt in a particularly inspired mood…

Darcy tentatively lifted the lid, and sifted his hand through the papers and buttons and the like, until he found at the very bottom of the box precisely what he hadn't realized he was looking for: a small, plain pouch with a draw string, just about the size of his fist. Slowly, he removed the pouch from the debris, and for a moment simply stared. This sort of sack was generally used for carrying tobacco, but Darcy did not smoke, and so he had only kept it for… Well, for nothing, he supposed. At least, up until recently…

He opened the pouch, and saw there lying a single white blossom, just as he had left it the night of the Netherfield Ball. For a moment he felt strangled by the force of his… What was it? Interest? No, that was too subtle a word. He thought it felt almost like…awe. Darcy paused to consider his choice of words, and shrugged. It made absolutely no sense to him, but he decided to stick to it. Then he carefully removed the delicate flower from its hiding place, and as he held it at a steady level with his blue eyes, began thoughtfully spinning it between his thumb and forefinger. If asked at that moment, he wouldn't have been able to express in any words what he was thinking or feeling. But once his eyes had remained narrowed for so long that his vision had begun to blur, he was able to determine that, whatever reaction he was having, it hurt, and brought Elizabeth Bennet's face to mind.

Without any conscious decision-making on his part, Darcy found himself sinking into his bath, flower still in hand. He saw her face before him, and he moaned. He heard her kind, captivating voice, and he shuddered. And yet all this torture made him feel just a touch more complete.

_Could this be what I am was missing?_ a little voice inside him wondered. _Could it be…her?_

No, he insisted to his own self. No. No, no, no. _No. _It was ridiculous. Preposterous. Horrendous. He didn't need her in his life. Hell - he didn't need anyone in his life! Any woman of the uxorial persuasion, at least. He could get along very well on his own. This nonsense with Elizabeth - No, _Miss Bennet_. It would would be better for him to regard her as thus. This nonsense with Miss Bennet was plainly and simply a case of lust, just as he had told himself only about a million times. A phase - perhaps it was a phase! Were twenty-eight-year-old men prone to phases? He was nearing thirty. It must be some sort of early midlife crisis, he resolved as the muscles in his hands tightened with frustration. Which of course caused him to glance down at his hands and, by extension, the flower. Despite his intense study of the little bloom just moments earlier, he hadn't noticed that the petals were beginning to wither, and their pure white color was beginning to fade. It was a sign! he protested to his traitorous heart. This infatuation was OVER.

But then he looked at the flower again.

… It was still quite pretty, he allowed as he again began to spin the floret by its stem.

… Elizabeth was quite pretty. But not only was she pretty - she was intelligent! And she was witty, and charming, and loving. Downright adorable, and hilariously funny! And there were these certain moments where she would smile or chuckle - or bite her lower lip in an attempt not to smile or chuckle! - and she thought he didn't see it. But he did. And, God help him, but it made him want to -

That. Was. It.

He was_ done_. He was done allowing the snares of an attractive woman to control him! Finished giving into the temptation of fantasizing over her! Good God, he was naked, in a tub, thinking about what her smiles made him want to do! Had there ever been anything less gentlemanly?! He had never been this type of man. And if he didn't stop wanting what he couldn't have, he would begin to go after it anyway, gentlemanliness be damned. And that would make him exactly like Wickham. Perhaps even worse than Wickham.

No, he would finally return to his regular purpose in life: doing the proper thing, the wise thing, the responsible thing.

Darcy quickly removed himself from the tub and wrapped a nearby towel about his waist, every movement emanating conviction and firmly placed purpose.

He would find a wife.


	13. Chapter 13

_Author's Note: Hello, all! In our last chapter, Darcy had arrived home, determined to look for a wife. Let's see how that works out. ;) Enjoy!_

* * *

><p>Chapter XIII<p>

The House Party

"Good morning, William," Georgie greeted her brother cheerfully as she entered the breakfast room the next morning.

"Good morning, Georgie dear." Darcy stood and dropped a quick kiss on her cheek.

"How did you sleep?"

_Not well. _"Just fine. And you?"

"Oh, I am never tired!" she cried in a woeful voice perfectly suited for the stage. "I'm not quite certain what the problem is, but I am always too energized to lie still. I have to force myself. So I sit in my bed for hours, trying to think of wretchedly boring things. I declare, it sometimes takes until three o' clock for me to fall asleep!" Then, her monologue finished, she went to the sideboard and began to fill her plate, suddenly all tranquility and lightheartedness.

Darcy stood bewildered. "What time did you fall asleep last night?"

"Oh, about two o' clock, I'd say," Georgiana replied vaguely.

"And you woke at…?"

"Hmm. Perhaps six?"

"_Six?! _You've only had four hours of sleep?!"

"I'm sorry, Will," she sighed, "but it's not as if I don't try to - Ooh! Biscuits!" With speedy hands Georgie carelessly plopped three biscuits in the middle of her plate and took her seat, sleeping issues suddenly forgotten.

Darcy slowly lowered himself into his chair, eyes wide with astonishment. He didn't really want to discipline her, although he supposed that was what the father figure was meant to do. But she was so blissful and effulgent, he just couldn't bring himself to reprimand her. He had seen how downcast his Georgie had been in the months following the incident with Wickham. Day after day she'd been nothing but pale, lifeless, and silent - so much so it had nearly broken Darcy's heart. How could he now crush her spirit? So he formed his face in the most nonchalant expression and said, "Well, make an attempt to get some sleep, darling."

Georgiana's lips parted in puzzlement. "You're not upset any longer?"

He shrugged. "As long as you're happy."

"But, Will… I wouldn't mind if you were upset with me..."

Darcy's head turned rapidly toward her. "Are you saying you _want _me to punish you?"

"Well…yes!"

He tried to formulate a reply to that, but he could only shake his head. He would never understand young ladies.

"You spoil me, Will. You've hardly said a single harsh word to me in your life." She took his hand, almost as if to comfort him. "I know you only want to see me happy, but… Sometimes I need a bit of criticism, to guide me as I grow."

Darcy stared at his sister in puzzlement. He knew what she said to be true, but what child said she needed - nay, _wanted_ - discipline? Then again, Georgie wasn't very much like other girls. "I… I will consider what you say."

Georgie's smile was radiant. "Thank you, Will. I am so looking forward to being responsible!"

He chuckled and gave her a look that said, _I'll ask you more about this later_.

They ate their breakfast uninterrupted until a servant came in with the post. "Thank you," brother and sister murmured in perfect sync. Then they shared a smile, and Darcy turned to the post.

"Oh, G - " He stopped himself before he blasphemed in his sister's presence. "Goodness." At the very top of the stack of letters was what appeared to be an invitation. There was nothing he would rather do than throw the missive into a fire, leaving it - and, by extension, the nuisance of attending something - smoldering in the white hot flames. But of course Georgie had to go and say, "What is it, brother?" thereby forcing him to break the seal, or else face the wrath of a little sister's curiosity. He did so, and instantly regretted it.

"No, no, no. We're not going to this."

Georgie was obviously intrigued. "We?" she asked excitedly. "What is it?"

"No."

"What?"

"_No_."

"_What?_" She snatched the invitation out of his hand. "Hmm. It seems we've _both _been invited to a house party," she informed him, as if he hadn't just read that exact thing himself, "hosted by… Oh."

"The Marchioness of Leeky," he finished in an agonizing groan.

Georgie began to chuckle under her breath. "Is she the silly woman I met at that garden party?"

He nodded. "A silly woman with a silly husband, a silly title, and a silly name."

"Oh, yes, I do recall there being something amusing about her surname," Georgie mused. "If my memory serves me, I believe that upon the hearing of it I nearly shot lemonade out of my nose."

"Tuzink-Thoddston."

Georgie lapsed into a full on belly laugh, finding herself so incapable of speech she could only wave her hand in a gesture that said, _Yes, that's it_.

"Why their two families insisted on hyphenating their names, I'll never know," Darcy muttered with a shake of his head.

Laughter now subsided, Georgiana reentered the conversation. "But why would she invite me? Does she not know I haven't had my coming out?"

"There's a - "

"Oh, there's a note!"

"Precisely," Darcy muttered.

"_Mr. Darcy,_" she read. "_Although I am certain the receiving of this invitation must be to you the greatest honor -_ "

"Ha!" he scoffed.

"Don't interrupt. _I must beg your pardon for my impertinence in including in my summons your sweet sister, knowing full well you have not as yet permitted her to participate in social functions such as these._" Georgie stopped and turned to him. "I do wish you'd remedy that."

"Don't interrupt," Darcy countered with a wink.

She sighed and continued, "_However, I am desperately in need of one gentleman and one lady in order to equalize party attendance. There have been so many refusing - I cannot understand it!"_

Darcy tapped his cheek in a sarcastic semblance of thought. "I cannot begin to speculate…"

"_You being so good a friend to my dear husband and I _- "

"That I really cannot begin to speculate."

Georgie gave him a glare that obviously constituted a final warning. "_I knew I could trust only you to assist me in my dilemma. Most gracious thanks, Elaine Tuzink-Thoddston._"

The two sat silent for several minutes, Georgiana repeatedly casting glances toward Darcy as he sat unaffected, quite simply refusing to indulge the conversation any further. "You know, Elaine Thoddston would have been a lovely name," she said, a bit loudly. He remained inattentive. Hopefully, if he was still and silent, she wouldn't ask -

"Can we go, William?"

"Uggggggh!" Darcy closed his eyes and began rubbing his temples. "Why? Just - Just… Why?"

"It will be so interesting!"

"And by interesting you mean aggravating, yes?"

"Please, Will? It will give a chance to practice my social skills!"

"You don't need to socialize with idiots."

"Now, Will, that is not nice. These people need our help equalizing the party attendance," she said in a sort of sing-song voice, accompanied by a sunny smile.

It didn't work.

She changed tactics almost remarkably fast. "Oh, please, Will, _pleeease_?"

"Didn't you just finish saying you want to be disciplined?"

"_Please please pleeeeease, Will?_"

Oh, what good were house parties anyway? The main purposes of the all the damned things were to eat, flirt, and -

Marriage hunt…

Before he had time to regret it, Darcy opened his eyes and said, "Alright."

She must not have heard him properly, because she began to turn away in disappointment. "Oh, I knew you wouldn't - "

"Georgie, I said alright."

"I know, you said…" She turned back around. "You said alright?"

There was still time to get out of this…"Yes, I did."

"Oh, Will!" Georgie leapt from her chair and threw her arms around him. "Thank you, brother! This will be so much fun, you'll see!"

He _seriously _doubted this would be any fun; but there was the slightest chance that if he really worked at the endeavor…

He may find a suitable wife.

* * *

><p>What kind of person threw a house party in December?<p>

Really. _What kind of person threw a house party in December?!_

Darcy re-tucked his arms around his shivering body as the carriage hit _yet another _bump in the road. He was so damned irritated he decided to voice his question aloud. "What kind of person throws a house party in December?" he very near growled. Georgie had opened her mouth to answer him, but he cut her off. "_Idiots. Idiots_ throw house parties when it's blasted cold out and the roads are dangerous."

"If you're so blasted cold, use another blanket. Isn't the hot brick warm enough?"

"Too warm. I didn't want to use it anymore."

"Oh really," she sighed with a clearly exasperated roll of her eyes. "And the roads can hardly be dangerous, we haven't had any snow!" They both turned to the window, half-expecting the universe to have heard these words and retaliate with an instantaneous snow storm. No flakes of ice forthcoming, each returned their gaze to the other. "We'll be there soon enough, anyway," Georgie finished.

"Yes, yes," Darcy grumbled. Truth be told, he was more concerned toward his future marriage prospects than the weather. He wanted to inform Georgiana of his intentions before they arrived at Leeky Manor - which was without a doubt the _worst _name of any property in history; - but how to go about it? Should he make a subtle hint? (_Georgie, I recently heard tell of a new novel about a man looking for a wife. I declare, I find that somewhat interesting. Your thoughts?) _Or should he be more direct? (_I am going to be married. The end.) _Eventually, he decided that he could say anything, really, as long as it did not welcome the classic reply of,

_I told you so. _

"Georgie?" Darcy began. She turned to him. "I, er…require your assistance, regarding…something."

His sister's interest was instantly peaked. "Really?" she asked in wonderment, her smile absolutely beaming. Faster than a bolt of lightening, she had already moved across the carriage to sit next to him.

"Now," Georgie continued, folding her hands on top of her lap in a very businesslike manner. "Tell me all your troubles!"

"Well, let's see. I have a little sister who is far too anxious to meddle in my personal affairs, I'm freezing cold, there's a spot on my right foot that's beginning to itch - "

"Will!"

"Alright, alright," he chuckled. Ah, there had never been another human being he found more pleasure in provoking than his sister. But this was a serious matter, and so he turned to Georgiana with a straightforward gaze, and said, "I have been thinking - "

"My congratulations."

"Georgie…"

"Sorry, I couldn't resist," she said, although she did not look very sorry. It was quite obvious that Georgiana enjoyed provoking _him _as well.

"I have been thinking," Darcy went on, "that the time has come for me to take on some responsibility - "

"But you are always responsible!" Georgie interrupted, face aghast. "Will, you do everything! Even the things you don't have to do! _Shouldn't_ have to do! How could you think you're irresponsible?"

Darcy could feel his teeth beginning to clench. "I never said I was _irresponsible_, I just - " He stopped and took a deep, restorative breath. "Just hold all your comments until the end, please." Georgie's shoulders slumped in disappointment, but, nevertheless, she nodded. "Thank you. Now,

"I have decided to finally perform my duty," he continued, "as master of Pemberley, but more importantly - as your brother. And I now believe it to be best for everyone concerned - for me _and _you especially - if I began to…make an effort…to search for….a wife." His work finally accomplished, Darcy swallowed, and turned so that he could gauge how Georgie had taken his news.

Her mouth was open so ridiculously wide, Darcy couldn't help but chuckle a bit. "W - Will, stop laughing!" Georgie insisted. "Are you… Really?"

Darcy nodded hesitantly, now puzzled at the extent of her disbelief. "Yes, Georgie, really."

"But… Brother, it's all so sudden."

He shrugged in what he hoped was a seemingly careless manner. "I shall consider it my introduction into spontaneity."

"You can't be spontaneous, you're you!"

"I don't think I can regard that as a compliment…"

"What I meant was that I know you prefer to think things over, to prepare yourself. I don't want to you to suddenly become spontaneous, simply because I insisted you must find a wife. Goodness! In regards to seeking your lifetime companion, spontaneity is the least advised route!" She took his hands, and looked up into his eyes, her fear and concern for him evident in her every feature. "If you are not ready for this, Will, I completely understand. This is such a large step, and I truly didn't mean to thrust you into it! I merely meant that you should consider the possibility of…readiness in recent years."

"I have considered, Georgie. I am truly touched by your concern," he intoned as he covered her hand with his own, "but I am certain. Now, don't you fret. I am sure to make an informed decision, seeing as I will have an excellent sister to assist me…"

This brightened her whole being in an instant, "Truly?"

"Together we shall survey the house party, assessing the situations, calculating the marriage prospects. We'll be like spies!… Only, it won't be nearly as exciting, I'm afraid."

Georgie giggled and took his hand in a deal-sealing shake. "Of course I will help you. Will we require black clothing for nighttime camouflage?"

"Only if you remembered the grappling hook."

"Oh, fiddlesticks! I believe I left it in my other reticule!"

Darcy tried to formulate a reply, but was overcome by a fit of hysteric laughter. Georgie's serious mien had lapsed as well, and the pair of them cackled and chuckled until their inevitable arrival at Leeky Manor, both being forced to wipe their eyes of buoyant tears before greeting their host and hostess.

* * *

><p>If only there could have been some sort of trouble on the way. An excitable horse, a lost carriage wheel, an encounter with a highwayman, an encounter with a whole pack of highwaymen! - any obstacle that should have provided the requisite preparation for this moment.<p>

"Dear Mr. Darcy, you have arrived at last!" the Marchioness of Leeky cried as she waved madly at him from the front steps of Leeky Manor. The marquis stood beside his wife, laughing at no one knew what. "Miles!" the marchioness cried in the general direction of her husband. "Miles, look, _dear _Mr. Darcy has arrived!"

Darcy had stepped from the carriage by now - with steps of the most profound irritation, - and had turned to assess the marquis' reaction to his wife's repeatedly referring to another man as 'dear Mr. Darcy.' But the gentleman only laughed all the harder, seemingly unaware of anything beyond his own insensibility.

With a hardly repressed sigh, Darcy turned back to the carriage to assist his sister in stepping down. "Georgie, I truly hope we're able to survive - _Georgie, stop laughing!_"

Georgiana swiftly covered her mouth with her hands and turned away to compose herself.

"It would have been confoundedly impolite if they had heard you," Darcy admonished, listening and waiting patiently as his sister's giggles began to subside. "Almost as bad as the marquis," Darcy muttered under his breath.

Georgie's brief moment of hysteria controlled, Darcy gave her his arm and walked in the direction of the two…_interesting _persons who for the next week would be their host and hostess.

"Dear Mr. Darcy, welcome!" the marchioness crooned as she gracefully lifted her hand to him. Darcy took the proferred hand in a proper grasp, intending their fingertips to share only the briefest contact, when the marchioness suddenly forced her hand upward to crash square onto his lips - and, curse the woman, he had just opened his mouth to express his greetings, causing him to all but swallow the sickly green lace of her gloves!

The Marchioness of Leeky lowered her hand from his now quite scratchy lips. "Oh!" she squawked, as she glanced with a teasing chuckle at the gauntlet with which 'dear Mr. Darcy' was now _thoroughly _acquainted. "I believe your amorous attentions have left a bit of a soiled spot on my lace, Mr. Darcy! La!" The marquis instantly underwent a relapsing fit of chuckling and chortling, again compelling Georgiana to laugh that witch's cackle which possessed her whenever she was insurmountably amused. Naturally, Miles Tuzink-Thoddston was not offended. Indeed, Darcy suspected the man was completely unaware of the fact he was an imbecile.

Darcy, on the other hand, stood knee deep in the bile of his humiliation, the extent of his stupidity understood by him with an almost unhealthy amount of recognition. The three of them - the mad marquis especially, who was now holding his stomach and slapping the devil out of his thigh he was laughing so damned hard; - they all took note of his befuddled expression and found humor in it! He was not at fault. He knew very well there was no need for distress. And yet _he _was the one who felt the sting of embarrassment, as if it was he who had propagated the devouring of Elaine Tuzink-Thoddston's hideous excuse for a glove!

Fitzwilliam Darcy _despised _even the possibility of being deemed a fool. He was quite the supporter of self-loathing, but when another human being sought to insult him…

He _would not_ continue to allow the smallest iota of derision to be cast upon him.

Regardless, the marchioness's lace glove had tasted rather a bit like a stale crumpet, so if there were anyone who should be embarrassed in this situation, it was she.

Therefore, Darcy made an instantaneous decision to adopt his infamous _I am not amused _glower, a look so menacing he retrieved it from his repertoire for only the most special of occasions.

"Oh, don't fret, Darcy old boy! These things do happen!" the marquis cried in a tone that was overly amiable. Then he glanced at his wife with a a bemused grin. "Could it be Mr. Darcy's teething, darling?"

His mouth _dropped_.

"I'm not quite certain, darling," the marchioness replied, sounding for all the world as if she were serious. "Although I do believe little Daniel mouthed a pair or two of my gloves when he was in that dreadful stage. There was no living with him. Perhaps we should simply relieve ourselves of the trouble and hand Mr. Darcy off to a nurse!" The force of their laughter nearly sent the Tuzink-Thoddstons toppling to the ground.

This was definitely a special occasion.

Without a moment's hesitation, Darcy squared his shoulders with the ease of a man accustomed to the subsequent hardening of the heart brought on by a steaming rage.

_I. _

His ice blue eyes set with a deadening precision on the hyena heads of his selected prey.

_AM. _

The corner of his mouth bent ever so slightly, creating a morbid shadow of a smile, which suggested to its unfortunate recipients that this man foresaw the future - and their future was grave.

_NOT. _

He slowly lifted a contemptuous left brow…

_AMUSED. _

…and took one step forward.

**All laughter ceased. **

_There - simple as that, _Darcy thought as he admired his handiwork. The Marquis and Marchioness of Leeky stood frozen and wide-eyed, the epitome of mortal terror. In fact, he concluded with a high degree of satisfaction, they were a perfect representation of woodland game. Two stupid deer staring down the barrel of a gun.

"If you will pardon our rudeness, Lady Leeky," he murmured in the most amiable of cruel voices - or was it the cruelest of amiable voices? - "I believe my sister and I would find it beneficial to our current faculties if we were to retire to our rooms."

"Oh! Well - ah - " For perhaps the first time in recorded history, Elaine Tuzink-Thoddston was speechless. He should receive a medal for this! "Well, yes, of course," she finally finished.

"Thank you." He bowed as low as was deemed proper when in the company of a marquis and marchioness; but he did so slowly, with a clear intent of mockery. "And I thank you as well for the invitation." And then with just the meanest hint of a growl, "It was most kind of you." Purpose smoking under his feet like the devil's own hot coals, he entered the front hall of Leeky Manor with an almost tangible pride, completely without thought for the master and mistress of the building into which he strode. Then he spoke to the butler as if he himself owned the place, requesting - albeit with an obvious expectation of compliance - that he and his sister be shown to their chambers and that hot water should be brought to them. As. Soon. As. Possible.

In a matter of five seconds, Fitzwilliam and Georgiana Darcy were being led up the grand staircase with all the gravity of a veritable procession of royalty.

"Why do you treat such people thus, Will?" Georgie suddenly whispered to him.

Her voice broke him from his power-induced narcotic trance. "How? To whom?"

"People you dislike. You - you trample them under your foot, and you frighten them." It almost appeared as if she herself were trampled and frightened, as her pretty cornflower blue eyes gazed at him with a combination of terrified awe and admiring contempt.

He felt the seductive wave of control and dominance which had lifted him to such monumental heights instantly deflate into a heap of…nothingness. "What was I meant to do, Georgie?"

"I don't know… But not that. I'm afraid. Not for the Tuzink-Thoddstons…but for you."

* * *

><p>Dammit, he felt guilty.<p>

He told himself there was no cause for repentance, no reason he should be rebuked, and no need to feel ashamed of himself.

And yet there it all was: the shame of a deed done without chastisement, without reproach, completely open for his own interpretation and judgement.

Perhaps he had behaved out of turn with the marquis and marchioness, Darcy allowed as he laid down in his chambers at Leeky Manor, listening to the far off sounds of Kendall preparing the day's accoutrements. After all, what were a few petty teases? Certainly nothing so criminal that they deserved the _I am not amused. _But - however much he could condemn his outward actions, he could not bring himself to regret his feelings.

There were certain people in this world who simply pushed him over the edge. It wasn't that he thought them stupid, and he so very intelligent. It wasn't that he found them irritating, and he himself a paragon of affability and charm. There was no one in existence whose personal traits and behavior he despised more so than his own. He walked into a room inhabited by any other person and he found himself shrinking under the Herculean weight of his own self-condemnation. He was boring, he was foolish, he was unmemorable, he was insecure, he was unresponsive, and he was just about the most awkward thing to ever step foot on God's earth. And yet he knew the effect he had on the recipients of a cold stare or an indifferent turn of the head. Despite the fact that he disrespected himself in every way, shape and form, should anyone else dare to press his feelings, or seek to make him out as anything less than a respectable gentleman… One lifted brow could topple the scale in the completely opposite direction, and suddenly they were the ones who harbored no security in their own skins, granting him the delicious conviction that he had some form of control. Not over the surveyors of his foul moods, no, but over his life.

There had been very few occasions in Fitzwilliam Darcy's life in which he had decided what he wanted. He had often resolved _this_ would be for the best, or _that_ was really what should be done. When the Tuzink-Thoddstons had brought his blood to a boil, well, the fact of the matter was that he had _wanted _to be angry. He had wanted to prove to them his largeness, his intelligence, his fury, his power. When he entered one of those damned social events he didn't _want _to attend, feeling stupid and out of place, he couldn't very well speak and be friendly. But he could enter with his chin held high and show them all that he wore command about his shoulders like an evening cloak; and if they believed it, perhaps he could believe it himself.

So he would make an attempt to apologize to the marquis and marchioness, however brutal an experience it may prove to be. But he would show them all that he was not a beast to be tethered down and tamed. Like a threatened creature of the underground, he would arm his defenses - a cold mask of disinterested mastery and a mean left brow.

And then he would flee.

At that moment, a knock sounded at the door. With a sigh of reluctance, Darcy lifted himself into a more appropriate position and bellowed, "Enter!"

The door opened slightly, just enough for Georgie to peek her head into the room. "Will, I am sorry if what I said upset you."

Darcy smiled, his heart instantly warmed by the kindness of his little girl. "No, Georgie, I am perfectly well. You were right, I should not have behaved to Lord and Lady Leeky in the manner I did. I shall make an effort to apologize forthwith."

Georgie's mouth formed a little _o_ of surprise, and then she smiled at him in clear amazement. "William, you are so wonderful!" she marveled. "Thank you…for listening to my advice. I am very proud to be your sister."

Darcy chuckled and gave Georgie an affectionate peck on the cheek. "I sometimes forget which of us is the adult. Here you are, constantly advising me, when I, your older brother, do so very little in the way of helping you."

"That is not true, and you know it," Georgie admonished with a little slap of his arm. "But! Speaking of my advising you…" Here Georgiana slowly retreated from him and walked into his dressing room on a stealthy tip toe, as if he wasn't watching the entire interlude. Darcy took one step to follow her at the precise moment she bellowed, "Stay there!" He managed to obey. Even when Georgie said something to Kendall stating that they were 'ready', a prospect that made him entirely too anxious, he remained standing just where he had been left, until Georgie called, "You can come in, Will!"

Darcy chuckled and muttered something unintelligible about being granted permission into his own dressing room, and entered.

Georgie and Kendall stood side by side, holding a monstrously elaborate coat in each of their uplifted arms.

"I had Kendall order these for you about a month ago," Georgie said in a timid voice. "I know they are not your style, per se, but they are apparently all the rage in London, or so Mrs. Annesley tells me. And I thought they may be a help to you. With the marriage mart, I mean."

Darcy swept a bewildered gaze over each of the four coats. The action was an assault to the eyes, so blindingly bright was the range of colors before him. There was a disgusting green that reminded him quite a bit of Lady Leeky's gloves, a flowery purple, a lurid ice blue, and a - "Is that _pink_?!"

Georgie lowered her eyes. "Well, yes it is, but - "

"You expect me to wear _pink? _Absolutely not. Out of the question. No."

"Will, there are a multitude of men who adore this color in London."

"Then let them wear it, Georgie. I refuse to look like a posy. Therefore, I also reject _this _- " He pointed a condemning finger at the disgusting green. " - and _this_." He shifted his finger toward the flowery purple.

Georgiana's eyes lit with hope as she regarded the last remaining coat. "So you will wear…"

"It _is _blue," he said with a submissive smirk, "so I suppose I can suffer through it."

"_Eee! Thank you, thank you, thank you, Will!_" Georgie cried as she threw her arms about him. "Oh, you'll look just marvelous! Now, I shall leave you in Kendall's care. Tata! I'll be waiting…" Then she gleefully quit the room.

* * *

><p>Darcy met his sister at the top of the staircase thirty minutes later. And he had one thing to say.<p>

"_I look like a peacock._"

"A very handsome peacock," Georgie assured him with a businesslike conciseness.

"There is _lace _in my sleeves."

"That's the fashion now."

"The buttons on my waistcoat are little rosebuds."

"You have always admired the beauty of flowers, don't try to pretend otherwise."

"These breeches are too tight."

Georgie giggled breathily at that. "What?"

"Just as I said. These breeches are too tight. I feel exposed." He hadn't the faintest knowledge of the tight black fabric that had been used to make the garment, but whatever it was had caused his legs to go numb from lack of circulation. His thighs were burning with needles of pain, and he was fairly certain the contours of his arse were far more conspicuous than they should be.

"Relax, brother, you look wonderful. The epitome of sophistication and style."

"More like the epitome of frills and fruffles, if you ask me."

"Fruffles?"

"I can invent any words I please."

Georgie's only reply was a chuckle and a reassuring pat of his hand. Then the two of them made their way to the welcome fête which was being held in what one of the footmen had referred to as 'the rainbow parlor.' Darcy felt a sudden urgent need to retreat back to his rooms. He had heard of houses that possessed a rose parlor, or a yellow parlor, but a _rainbow _parlor? The probability that he would soon find himself lost amidst a nauseating sea of multicolored decorations literally sickened him; and, for a moment, he truly believed he would be justified in excusing himself for the rest of the night. Unfortunately, they arrived at their destination before he could utter another word. Darcy determinedly swallowed the bile that had risen in his throat, and watched as two powdered footmen opened the parlor's double doors with a grand flourish.

He received quite the pleasant surprise.

The salon was very large and open, with white washed walls and an enormous sky light of stained glass casting colored shadows in every corner. If a little ostentatious in its design, the furniture was refined and matched well with the rest of the decor. The air was filled with the integrated perfume of wintertime flora, clustered together in an almost wild variation of color and size. Darcy was forced to admit that the room itself was pleasant, and was in fact very clever in its motif. If there weren't so many people milling about, he could, perhaps, find himself completely at ease in this atmosphere. But, of course, it was a house party, meaning there were bound to be others. There were some fifteen or twenty persons present, Darcy surmised as he set his gaze about the perimeter of the room. He could feel his ornate neckcloth growing inexplicably tighter around his throat, and his tongue suddenly felt so thick and sloshy in his mouth that it would be impossible to contribute to conversation, even if he tried. When it came to attending social functions, Darcy had grown comfortably accustomed to Bingley's company - and Max's, as well, in the days prior to his mysterious 'travels.' Now Georgie was his only company, his little girl who was not yet out in society, and had never attended a true _ton _affair such as this. Who would speak for him when he proved unable? Who would divert the attention of gossip mongers and match making mamas? Who would reassure him and keep him (remotely) at ease? Surely, the poor little thing was as nervous as he was.

"Lady Leeky, this is absolutely divine!" Georgie purred in what was perhaps the most cultured and charming voice he had ever heard in his life. Darcy stood awestruck as his sister curtsied to their hostess, who stood beside her husband at the entrance to greet the late arrivals. "Such a beautiful beginning to what is sure to be the best of house parties. My brother and I marvel at the ingenuity of such a salon design. Don't we, brother?… _Brother_."

Darcy hastily bowed to the marchioness, determined that the woman would never again find any cause to regard him as ungentlemanly. "Indeed, your ladyship." Then he cast a suspicious glance in Georgiana's direction. How was she so amiable and pleasing? He had never seen her this way; not in her younger years, and certainly not in recent months, so shortly after the incident with Wickham. Then she had cowered under the eyes of strangers. Now she flourished in a field of them.

Upon their first entering the room, Lady Leeky had shrunk back a bit at the sight of Darcy's large, menacing form; but Georgie's affability had put her at complete ease now, and she spoke readily and freely. _Too_ readily and freely, in Darcy's opinion. "Why, thank you very much, Miss Darcy, Mr. Darcy! My little Daniel is a great admirer of this room, as well - however, he is such a menace that he more often than not finds a way to destroy it. There was no living with him. So I informed him there were haunted spirits guarding this salon, and that they were waiting to gobble him up if so much as touched his little finger to the doorknob."

He _and _Georgie fell silent at that. Really, what reply could be made?

"Anywho!" the marchioness continued cheerily, as if she hadn't just revealed her means of scarring her dear son for life. "Mr. Darcy, I am so sorry for what transpired early this morning!"

Guilt descended on him once more, and made him instantly penitent. "No, no, Lady Leeky, I assure you the fault was entirely my own. My behavior was inexcusable. But, to both you and your husband," he made a respectful gesture in the direction of Lord Leeky, who stood at his wife's right hand laughing at something or other, "I do whole-heartedly apologize."

"No harm done, Mr. Darcy!" Lord Leeky suddenly interjected, placing a friendly hand on his shoulder. "After all, what's a guttered sixpence between friends?"

… He had no idea what that meant, so he elected not to comment on it.

"Oh!" the marchioness cried as her eyes lit with remembrance. "I nearly forgot! Come, come, dear Mr. Darcy, there is someone whom I should most _especially _like you to meet. Oh, and you as well, Miss Darcy, of course!"

Darcy took Georgie's arm, and with great reluctance followed Lady Leeky's quick steps across the room. He was being thrown into the company of a marriageable miss, obviously. It was what he had expected and, in fact, _planned _would occur; yet, he could feel himself sinking deeper into the quicksand of his previous conviction with every step. He couldn't do this. He couldn't woo a refined young lady, or any lady at all, most likely. How would he make himself out as the man who knew precisely what he was doing, when he was habitually the idiot who could scarcely string two words together? How did one smile at the female with whom he conversed? Solicitously? Suggestively? Flirtation was a dangerous game, - one he hadn't the slightest idea how to play.

"Mr. Darcy," Lady Leeky began, as they approached a rather small young woman standing by herself in the farthest corner of the room, " - oh, and Miss Darcy, as well, of course. Allow me to introduce to you my dearest friend in all the world! Lady Viola Chessy, daughter of the Earl of Accleston. Viola, this is Mr. Darcy of Pemberley in Derbyshire. Oh! And his darling little sister, Miss Georgiana Darcy."

Lady Viola's mouth lifted into a broad smile - so broad, in fact, that it nearly made Darcy jump a few feet. "Mr. Darcy, Miss Darcy. A pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"The pleasure is all ours, Lady Viola," Georgie said as she bent into a proper curtsy.

Damn. He bowed. If he was going to find a wife, it might be a helpful thing to actually exercise the manners he'd had hammered into him since birth.

There was a moment of silence, and the marchioness, perceiving by the lack of conversation between himself and Lady Viola that _she _would have to be the one to kindle the flames, suddenly declared, "We were just speaking of the Rainbow Ghouls!"

Lady Viola's eyes lit with amusement. "Oh, were you? Well," she said, addressing herself to the Darcys, "despite whatever nonsense this one tells you about her own in involvement in the scheme, I assure you that _I _am the one who created the monsters in the first place."

"I have never said otherwise!" Lady Leeky cried in outrage.

Lady Viola waved her hand in a gesture of indifference. "Yes, yes - Now, to continue on, I was inspired by a novel I happened to be reading at the time, - "

"I was reading it, as well."

" - _Gracie Gainsworth Greets the Ghoulish Gentleman,_ - "

"So many G's! Imagine the grueling task of saying that ten times!"

" - in which the house of a man named Mr. Gregor - "

"_Gracie Gainsworth Greets the Ghoulish Gentleman, Gracie Gainsworth Greets the Ghoulish Gentleman, Gracie Grainsworth Rates the Hoolish -_ Wait."

" - is possessed by ghouls and goblins and what not - "

"Let me try again."

Lady Viola charmingly raised her fan…and gave her dear friend a frightening _whack! _in the stomach. "As I was saying - "

"_Oww!_ That really hurt!" Lady Leeky turned to him. "Dear Mr. Darcy, you see how I am abused?"

"I - ah - " Darcy blinked a few times. His vision had grown a bit blurry from ricocheting his eyes back and forth between the two women.

"She speaks falsely, Mr. Darcy," Lady Viola asserted. "However, there was that one instance…"

The ladies burst out laughing at the _exact _same moment.

_Good God, _Darcy thought, _they share a brain. _

Then the two of them continued to babble on in an inconceivable manner about something neither Georgie nor himself would understand. Each of the women were able to cut short the sentences of the other and still manage to carry on their conversation - a talent that surely every male in existence would find both amazing and horrifying. "You weren't - " "Yes, I know, but _you _hit me with a - " "I said - " "Rubbish. You didn't - " "I know."

After another resounding round of laughter, Lady Leeky turned _at last_ to her other guests. "Oh, you must forgive me, Mr. Darcy, I believe I am a bad influence on her. Perhaps the two of you should like some time to yourselves? I should love to introduce Miss Darcy to the rest of the present company."

"Yes," Georgie pronounced before Darcy could say a word, "that would be lovely, Lady Leeky." Then, with a quick - but _painful _- elbow to his rib as she passed him, Georgie took the marchioness's arm in her own and proceeded to be dragged about the salon.

Well, what was he to do now?

Darcy's eyes darted in various directions about the room as he anxiously searched for a topic of conversation. Meanwhile, Lady Viola stared directly into his eyes, causing him to grow even more uncomfortable as she followed his ever fleeting glance. With great determination he looked at her, settling his gaze _above _her brows so that he would not be forced to look her directly in the eye, and then said the one witty piece of banter he could think of: "I myself enjoy alliteration."

It took her a moment realizing to what he was referring, but when she did she giggled prettily and said, "I've read a good fifty billion novels that are just the same."

"Really? Fifty billion?"

She blushed at her exaggeration. "Well, thereabouts," she said enigmatically. Then she continued in her declaration by naming, from memory, every example of alliteration in gothic novels that it was in her power to recall. Every title from _An Amiable Actor at Albany _to _The Zany Zeus of Zeffer Street_ fell glibly from her mouth, until Darcy truly did believe there were a good fifty billion. And after that conversation had evaporated, Lady Viola went on to discuss a great many other things. And at great length. From time to time she stopped, all remorse as she insisted that she was talking far more than she should. Darcy assured her he did not mind - and, indeed, he truly didn't. Had he put some effort into the matter, he may have found one or two interesting tidbits to impart; however, his own lack of charm would have most likely diminished any interest his words may have held for her. But Lady Viola had impressive powers of speech. By Darcy's estimation, the lady must have been speaking for a good twenty minutes or more about things that couldn't have interested him in the least; yet, the force and intonement with which she pronounced her perfectly bland words was captivating and lively. She narrated events with inflection and suspense, related jests with perfect timing and punch. Darcy listened with great interest to her invigorating discourse on, well, anything and everything, whilst simultaneously taking into account the physical attributes of his proposed marital partner.

Lady Viola was very small and slender in both face and figure. Her face was round and constantly alight with animation, bestowing on her such a youthful appearance that Darcy could scarcely believe she was any older than Georgiana. Her eyes were a pretty emerald green, and her hair was an interesting mixture of brown and blonde.

Truth be told, Darcy preferred his women a bit more curvaceous. He did appreciate a lady with liveliness and humor, but not of the naive or silly sort. He loved women with dark hair and eyes. And he admired when they had little quirks about them. Lady Viola's face was immaculate in its shape and complexion. No, he preferred a woman with visible flaws. He loved a little sprinkling of freckles on the nose, hovering above a pair of full, red lips…

No. There would be no more musings on Elizabeth's physical or mental attributes to distract him. Not any longer. This, he reminded himself as he refocused his gaze on Lady Viola, was reality. This was something he should and could live with.

Couldn't he?

* * *

><p>Six days at Leeky Manor came and went in a frenzied blur of disgruntlement, delusion, and delight.<p>

And quite a bit of alliteration.

Darcy had carefully rooted through the attendant debutantes, and by all accounts Lady Viola Chessy was the best prospect for his future life. The other female guests of the marriageable persuasion had not pleased him in the least. They were all too haughty, too foolish, too vague. Lady Viola, though she certainly did not compel any romantic or passionate feelings in him, was clever, kind, and pleasant. Her behavior was a bit silly from time to time, but it was what signified her as being unique, rather than unintelligent. Her smile did not make his chest tighten with longing; but it did often coerce a smile of his own. Her figure was not one he particularly desired to hold in his arms; but he could theoretically believe himself capable of embracing her in friendship, though nothing more. The loving nature she most certainly possessed did not bring on the wish that he should be the only man with the honor of standing beside her; but they could at the very least remain upright together, as companionable partners. Having determined Lady Viola's suitability and made the daunting resolution that he would woo her, - (Damn, he hated that word. _Woo. _It made his stomach churn.) - Darcy had made a daily effort to engage his prospective fiancée in conversation. Blessedly one-sided conversation. Oh, he would occasionally ask a question or provide some small insight of his own. However, Lady Viola's replies were so lengthy that, for the first time since the beginning of his life among the _ton_, he could sit in absolute silence without being condemned an ill-mannered beast. In fact, Lady Viola seemed to understand his inability at speech, for she would sometimes stop herself and give him an encouraging smile, urging him to say a word or two. It made him affectionate toward her, though not by any means in the _romantique _sense of the word. But he had come to care for her as a dear friend, strange and wonderful as the case may be. Now that he was nearing middle age, he had not expected to make a new friend, let alone one who wore petticoats. And yet the two of them had founded a basis for a relationship, a start of something that could very well be a successful life together.

There was, however, one problem.

Every discussion with Lady Viola, every word the two of them had shared, had brought to Darcy's mind the thought of something - or, rather, some_one_ - else. On the second day of their stay at Leeky Manor, when the partygoers had been called together for an indoor scavenger hunt, - (they couldn't very well have one _out_doors, seeing as it was bloody freezing) - Lady Viola had brought up something to the effect that 'a single smile goes a long way when it touches the eyes of the forlorn.' Darcy had thought it a lovely sentiment, and had complemented Lady Viola on her vast wisdom; - however, her words had immediately brought him to recall a long ago trip to Meryton, during which he had witnessed a tender transaction between a sobbing young maiden and a Miss Elizabeth Bennet. He had been observing Elizabeth from a fair distance away, and could not hear the words imparted. However, he had been close enough to see a gentle touch of the hand, and a warm upturn of ruby red lips that had quite obviously come direct from the heart. That night he had dreamt of nothing but that smile. And so it had gone on for the entirety of the week. The third day of his association with Lady Viola, he had dreamed both day and night of Elizabeth's bewitching tendency to tease. On the fourth, it had been Elizabeth's deep, hearty laugh. The fifth, Elizabeth's inability to sit still for more than a second. The sixth, Elizabeth's…well…physical appeal. All of it had stemmed from a simple word or phrase uttered by Lady Viola Chessy; and somehow that made him feel as though he were being unfaithful - whether to Lady Viola or to Elizabeth, he could hardly say. And yet, every moment spent in his future bride's company had summoned the peal of the warning bell. The clang of a single word resounded painfully in his skull: _traitor. Traitor traitor traitor traitor. _

The seventh and last day was the worst of all.

"Attention, please!" Lady Leeky cried over the chatter at the breakfast table. "I am sure you are all excited for tonight's masquerade ball! I shall miss you all very much, as I am sure you shall all miss me. And my husband, of course." Lord Leeky raised his head from his piece of toast that was more jam than anything else, and laughed. "Therefore, we must strive to make this evening the most magical of all! No activities today! I need my guests well rested!"

Darcy just barely suppressed a sigh of relief. One more game of charades and his head would explode.

"How are you this morning, Mr. Darcy?" Lady Viola asked from her completely _not _coincidental seat next to him. (When Lady Leeky played the matchmaker, she put to use every advantage in her party hostess power.)

"Very well," he replied. "And yourself?"

"Very well, thank you." She asked whether he was looking forward to the masquerade that night. Darcy smiled demurely and answered in the affirmative; though, in truth, he held more dread than anything in regards to the upcoming evening. This was his final night with Lady Viola. His final opportunity to officially propose himself as Lady Viola's suitor, and, by extension, her future fiancé. And by another extension…her future husband.

Tonight. Fitzwilliam Darcy's last night as a free man. It was almost laughable, - the near decade of his life he'd spent becoming self-dependent, only to shackle himself to the ball and chain of matrimony. He supposed he had always known this day would come, that he would have to settle down eventually. This was nothing he was not prepared for, he assured himself. A wife would be another person to look after, another responsibility to take on - and what could be more emotionally rewarding than that? He enjoyed caring for the needs of others, relished in the opportunity to be depended upon. However, he could not help but mournfully contemplate that matrimony was a life-altering decision, the results of which would be set in stone for the rest of his days, completely without recall. And, perhaps, this was a choice that should be based upon what _he _wanted, rather than what _others _thought was best. Even so, Darcy was not in the habit of allowing himself such freedoms; and so, he spent the rest of the day asserting to himself that connecting himself with Lady Viola Chessy would be the most practical, advantageous thing, repeating over and over in his mind the benefits that would result from their union.

"She is kind, sweet, pretty," Darcy chanted once again, as he surveyed his appearance in the standing mirror. He would be expected downstairs at the masquerade any minute, and every ominous tick of the clock caused the repetition of his mantra to increase in its constancy. "Witty, engaging, lively." He hastily retrieved the pure black demi-mask that Kendall had assured him would carry a 'delicious element of mystique' when paired with his tightly tailored coat and breeches of heavy ebony. No frills or fruffles tonight. Everything from the tie of his cravat, to his waistcoat, and all the way down to his leather boots: deviously _black_.

He chuckled.

It almost made him feel a bit wicked.

And yet his eyes looked almost lifeless, he noted as he turned to his reflection once more. He should want to do this. He should want to do this! "You are comfortable with her," he all but growled, persisting in his chant. "She actually appears to enjoy your company. She will give you children." No, no, he was going to have to omit that one. The thought of deflowering a girl so small and innocent had lately begun to make his skin crawl. "She will make a good wife." Then, with one quick, nervous mussing of his hair, he bounded out the door, ready to retrieve Georgiana and enter the masquerade.

* * *

><p>"Mr. Darcy and Miss Darcy," a powdered footman announced.<p>

They had only just entered the glittering ballroom when Darcy turned to Georgiana and said, "Why don't I leave you in Lady Leeky's care for a moment? I have some, ah… Something to attend to."

"Would this something have anything to do with Lady Viola?"

"You are too inquisitive for your own good," Darcy grumbled.

"Brother," Georgie whispered, "are you quite certain about this?"

"Very certain. Now go and stand with Lady Leeky."

Georgie groaned as she glanced back at the receiving line they had just passed. Lady Leeky stood in a monstrously garish gown of black and green with an enormous skirt, trying in vain to keep her towering powdered wig in place as she greeted her guests. Lord Leeky was laughing beside her, dressed much after the same fashion, in a green and black coat with lavish gold buttons and a powdered wig nearly as tall as that of his wife. "Will, must I?"

"Yes. I'll be right back." After seeing Georgie safely deposited with the Tuzink-Thoddston's, Darcy took a fortifying breath, and approached the mysterious sea of masked figures crowded together under the twinkling crystals of a grand chandelier. A few turned to glance at him in his maliciously dark garb, and then, all of a sudden - a few turned into ten. Then ten to twenty. Then fifty. Then the near hundred persons Lady Leeky had invited to the grand finale of her house party, the majority of whom had only come seeking entertainment.

And he had just become entertainment.

They were all staring at him, awestruck and almost fearful; and though he surely looked a vengeful giant with his large stature and villainous black mask, he felt as though his usual capability to dominate a room was shrinking, reduced to smallest and most base of organisms under the eyes of _so many people_.

The sound of his shallow breathing filled the frozen air, and the frantic beating of his heart pounded in his ear drums. He could scarcely move, scarcely think, but he somehow summoned enough of his equilibrium to make a hasty retreat to the far side of the room. He needed air, he needed space to breathe! He needed to shake from his head the dizzying specks of black that had covered his vision and made him feel damnably ill, he needed -

"Mr. Darcy?"

His eyes snapped open as he whipped his head toward the voice, the force of the movement nearly causing him to fall to the ground.

"Mr. Darcy?" Lady Viola anxiously repeated. "Are you alright, you're as pale as a ghost!"

He needed...to do this.

"Lady Viola, would you care to join me on the balcony?" He was still so nauseated by the crowd of people he had just encountered that his words were almost slurred.

Lady Viola's mouth was absolutely gaping in shock and consternation. "But, Mr. Darcy, you are not well! I don't think - "

"I am perfectly well." He shakily offered her his arm.

"Very well," she agreed - albeit hesitantly - as she placed her gloved hand on his sleeve, "if you insist."

"I do." Then he all but dragged the girl around the perimeter of the ballroom, through the large French doors, and to a relatively private corner of the balcony. As soon as Lady Viola lowered her hand from his arm, Darcy grasped the stone railway of the balcony in an attempt to redeem his balance. "Damn, that's cold!" he grunted, his statement validated by the frosty mist which filled the air as he spoke. That and the fact that Lady Viola was shivering so violently she looked as if she'd shatter. "Damn - I mean, drat! - I'm so sorry. For everything. Would you care to join me _inside_, where you won't die of lung fever?"

"No, no, it's alright," Lady Viola insisted, rubbing at her arms. "The fresh air will do you some good, I'm sure. Are you feeling better now, Mr. Darcy?"

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Yes, I think so," he sighed, finished with pretending he had been perfectly well before. His vision now completely restored, Darcy looked about the moonlit balcony and realized there was no one else present (and for good reason - it was bloody cold!) "You need not worry for your reputation," he assured her. "We can be easily seen from those doors there." Lady Viola only nodded, staring up into his eyes with anticipation. Now there was no choice. The time had come.

_She is kind, sweet, pretty, _he thought again, finding it necessary to repeat the advantages of his choice once more. He looked to Lady Viola for a confirmation of these three facts, and saw a lovely girl with a lovely appearance in a lovely pink dress. Really, why should a man ask for more? _Witty, engaging, lively. You are comfortable with her. She actually appears to enjoy your company. She will give you children. _Dammit, but she was so naive and tiny-waisted!

_She will make a good wife. _

"Lady Viola - "

"Please, please, Mr. Darcy, do not say another word," she all but sobbed.

"I - What, I'm sorry?"

"We shouldn't. We couldn't. You must know, Mr. Darcy, that we… that _this_… wouldn't be right." Lady Viola placed an affectionate hand atop his. "I have suspected your intentions, as I am sure you meant me to. And, truly, I believe there can be no greater honor, for any woman, than to be the bride of a man as good and genuine as you. But my romantic mind…it has ruined me. Irredeemably. You see, Mr. Darcy… I want to marry for love." She smiled sheepishly and looked to the ground. "I know it to be a foolish aspiration. But I cannot allow myself anything less than the truest love, and the _truth_ is this - " Then, in a moment of courage, she returned her gaze to directly meet his eyes. "I do not love you, Mr. Darcy. As I am certain you do not love me. I'm sorry, but I… I couldn't possibly."

For a moment he was forced to stand still, and think… He was not going to marry Viola Chessy… The change in him was so sudden and the relief so great he almost laughed. But Lady Viola's declaration that she wished to marry for love held an inexplicable interest for him, and he remained solemn as he contemplated what he had almost done. He had nearly crushed a girl's hopes and dreams of marrying a man who truly loved her, because he had wanted… What had he wanted? Why the hell had he done this? God help him, he couldn't remember anymore.

"You must think me most ungrateful," Lady Viola sighed in contrition, clearly having misinterpreted his silence.

"No, no, you are right. You are absolutely right, I was cold and crass and selfish. I hardly know you, but you seemed nice enough, and I wanted - I don't know what I wanted, but I'm so dreadfully sorry for being - "

"Please, cease, Mr. Darcy!" Lady Viola pleaded as she attempted to hold her laughter at bay. "My goodness, this is the most I've ever heard you speak!" Then she stared into his eyes in that frightfully penetrating manner of hers and whispered conspiratorially, "There is a lady you care for." In a moment of absolute panic, Darcy's heart positively _stopped _and then began to race at an alarming rate. "Don't deny it, Mr. Darcy," Lady Viola went on, her arm stretched outward so as to halt any attempts he may have made at speech. "It is quite obvious. To a trained eye such as myself, at least."

"But I… I thought - "

"That you had forgotten her? Of course not, you silly! Then why do your eyes glow so at the mention of love?" With a friendly little smile, she laid her hand on his sleeve and began to walk toward the French doors from which they had first come. "You _deserve _love, Mr. Darcy. We all deserve love."

As they neared the crowds of people, Darcy began to subconsciously look about the crowd. _You deserve love. We all deserve love. _The fine brown eyes. The deep, mesmerizing, fine brown eyes, where were they? With rich, chocolatey hair that always fell out of place. The soft face of pure, silky ivory! Where was her voice, her smile, her footstep? He had to find her. He had to find her and take her in his arms, as _his. _No one else's. _His. _He was possessive and insane, but dammit, he didn't care. He had never felt this way about _anyone _and he didn't want it to slip away. _You deserve love. We all deserve love. _Why shouldn't he do what he wanted? For once, what _he _wanted? For some reason he found himself magnetically drawn toward the crowd. Where was she? He needed her. She filled his life with something he couldn't see or hear or touch, and he had no idea what it was, but it was there, and damn him, he would die without it! "Elizabeth," he called in a shuddering whisper.

"Is that her name?" the momentarily forgotten Lady Viola asked. "Elizabeth?"

Reality returned, and Darcy finally realized that it was too late. Hertfordshire was a place of the past and he was never likely to return there. No. No, he did not love her. He hadn't known her well enough to love, hadn't given her any reason to love him in return.

He would never love. Because every blink of an eye renewed his view of the world, reasserting the fact that there was nothing for him in it. He would go home and forget what had happened in these last confusing, painful months. He would depend upon his own self, as he always had, and most likely always would. "Good bye… Viola. You are a good friend."

"Oh." She appeared disappointed that he did not answer her question, but his use of her Christian name made her smile. "As are you… Darcy."

That night, and every night for months following, his dreams were haunted by the words that had taken possession of his soul that masquerade night:

_You deserve love. We all deserve love._


	14. Chapter 14

_Author's Note: Hello, all! In our previous chapter, Mr. Darcy attending a very...interesting house party, and made the sad discovery that he would never love. :( Let's see what happens next, shall we? Hope you all enjoy it!_

_P.S. I am SO sorry I did not respond to the kind reviews I was left! I shall answer them all forthwith. :) Thanks! Happy reading!_

* * *

><p>Chapter XIV<p>

Lost in the Darkness - Found in the Starlight

The following months were empty. December, January, February, March, - all of them passed in a slow, agonizing rhythm. Darcy spent the majority of his days alone in his study at Pemberley, checking and rechecking estate finances, crop production and tenant care. Paper, paper, and more paper - thus was his normal existence, and by now he should be accustomed to one such. Yet, this regular state of solitary confinement now left him feeling drained of all life. He glanced at his reflection in a looking glass, and for a moment could swear his complexion had gone sickly pale. He told himself it was a flight of the imagination, a fancy brought on by self-pity. However, he could not deny the wrenching ache he felt pulsating inside of him, yearning to break free of his book-lined prison, to seek passion, and purpose.

He had at last come upon the realization that he never could love, - that he never _would_ love. However, that realization, rather than making him downcast, had simply left him feeling bland and useless. He had never been a man to dream of, or even to anticipate, love. _Love _- it was for the poor and the weak, not men with ten thousand pounds per annum to carry over their backs. Yet, suddenly, the word - _love_; - ithad taken on a new translation. It was for the man lucky enough to catch it within his grasp; and it brought joy to whoever was lucky enough to receive it; and it made fortunate the children who were lucky enough to be born of parents who truly loved one another, just as Darcy had been. What was the use of his life, if he could not love another? To feel nothing? It seemed almost a crime against God, failing to react with passion toward the life he'd been given. But - He did feel nothing. As he went on with task after daily task, there in his ominously large, lonely study, he could not love his life, or even imagine that it should be so.

Even his dreams, of late, had been uneventful. Uneventful, yet terrifying. For at least three nights of every week, he dreamt that there existed nothing but darkness. He could neither hear nor see nor touch, for all around him there was nothing. With that realization, he was hit with a sense of impending doom, and he began to panic, arms outstretched for something that was not there. Then he awoke, gasping for air.

There had been many a time, after his empty nightmares, that he would awake in a state of semi-consciousness. And everything from within him would slowly begin to ignite. He was only half-awake, yet he was able to recognize the emotions of which, throughout the day, he had been completely deprived. Loneliness, fear, helplessness, and utter misery would burst forth from the locked confines of his feelings, and all he knew was that he needed someone, to talk to, to seek help from! So he would stagger aimlessly out of his chambers and into the hallway, mumbling troubled nothings as he searched for anyone to whom he could turn. He stopped when he reached his mother's or his father's bedchamber door. Only then would some small piece of reality reach his lately punctured sanity, and he would remember that his parents were dead and gone, and that he was a grown man, and that grown men did not run to their parents when they were afraid, and that he should not be afraid! Therefore, there was nothing for him but to return to his bed and his sleep. He would awaken the next morning humiliated by his own weakness, but also relieved that no one had been present to witness it.

He told Georgie nothing of his dreams. Often, when they were breakfasting together, his little sister would stare concerned into his eyes, and ask whether he were well? He would always reply in the affirmative. Then she would ask if he had slept well? And he, unable to completely deceive her in that regard, would answer with some noncommittal phrase such as, _Well enough_.

And then came the night of his shame.

He was having another attack of trauma. He awoke panting and gasping for lack of breath, and he involuntarily rose from his bed and made a mad dash for the hallway. _I'm so alone, _his pulsating brain screamed as he fumbled down the hallway. _I can't - _

Suddenly, Georgiana appeared in front of him. "William?" his little sister gasped.

_Georgie! _He knew he should be mortified, but for the moment he could only be relieved that he had found someone. "Georgie, I can't have it!" he cried with shuddering breath. "I can't!"

"You can't have what? Will, what is wrong with you?! Are you asleep?"

_Love, I can't have love! I can't have life! There's no hope for me, no one cares for me, no one ever could! _However, in his current state of consciousness, he was unable to articulate his thoughts. He could only mutter incomprehensibly, "I need… Georgie, I'm… I am alone!"

"Oh, Will!" She rushed toward him with open arms, and Darcy allowed himself to be held. He didn't cry (he never cried), but convulsed a bit in her embrace. "Hush now," Georgie whimpered, his large stature forcing her to talk into his chest. "It's alright."

_It's so damned hard to wear a mask all the time! _"Mask… I have a mask, Georgie…"

"A mask?"

"I don't like it…" Dammit, he was beginning to feel as if he'd shatter!

Georgie looked up, into his eyes, somehow confused and understanding at the same time. "Come, brother," she whispered tenderly, "let me take you back to bed."

A part of the pridefulness in his masculinity awoke. "I am fine!"

"You are not," she insisted, wrapping her arm about him. "Now come along."

He gave way, relaxing in her hold. "I feel like…nothing."

"Hush now, brother," Georgie whispered as she led him lovingly to his chambers. "Hush."

* * *

><p>Darcy awoke the next morning feeling as drained as ever. He was now completely unaffected by the ravaging emotions he'd suffered the night previous; indeed, he scarcely remembered what had taken place. Something about Georgiana, he thought as he turned lazily onto his side.<p>

Little did he know Georgie was right beside him, sitting in a chair near the bed.

Darcy nearly leapt out of the bedsheets. "Georgiana, do _not _do that," he rebuked her - albeit, once he had recovered. "You scared me half to death."

"And you scared me half to death last night!" she accused, in an injured cry. Then in a softer tone, "Will, do you remember any of last night?"

Darcy laid back in the silky feather down, and thought for a moment. He now remembered enough so that he had reason to feel ashamed; he knew his little sister had cradled him like an infant, while he had whined over something he could not uproot from his subconscious. However, he did not currently feel himself quite inclined to batter his pride so low by acknowledging that event - especially now that it was already somewhat lowered by his sister's presence in his bedchamber, in unabashed view of his indecency. Darcy self-consciously covered his bare chest with the coverlet, and shrugged, having made the decision to remain completely in denial of his - or, perhaps, _their _- sleepwalking adventures. Unfortunately, a shrug was the only answer he could provide, for he could not lie to her, his little girl, the person placed first and foremost in his quiet heart.

As a result of his empty reply, Georgie appeared dubious. However this dubiousness was cast aside, as in a sepulchral tone of voice, she continued. "William," Georgie said, boldly holding her direct gaze on her brother's eyes as she did so, "I am concerned for you."

"You have no reason to - "

"Don't interrupt. I am concerned for you, and I think you need to get out of this house, out of your study." Georgie then retrieved an envelope from her skirt pocket, and gingerly placed it onto the bed beside him. "That came with the post this morning, and I think you had better read it."

Darcy allowed the coverlet to fall away from him, as he took hold of what appeared to be a letter from their Aunt Catherine - an _opened _letter from their Aunt Catherine. "You read my personal correspondence?" he shouted, indignant at the invasion of his privacy.

The girl remained completely unintimidated. "I reiterate: _I am concerned for you. _I have no other excuse, I'm afraid."

Darcy grumbled only briefly at the injustice, then unfolded the letter, and read:

_Darcy, _

_ I write to remind you of your annual visit to Kent - expected by myself, as well as by your dear cousin Anne, who is anxious to see you. An arrival dated for some time before the Easter Sunday will be acceptable. I would desire that you form a correspondence with your cousin the Colonel (I have sent him a notification similar to this), and then relate to me the day you believe suitable. The hour is insignificant to me, simply ensure that it is not too early or too late - in consideration of dear Anne's health. I fully expect you and the Colonel to behave with decorum while you reside in and amongst the parish; and to work diligently in your assistance in the management of my estate, as your visit requires. I would also wish that you be made known to Hunsford's new parson, - a gentleman of intelligence and loyalty, and an excellent clergyman, - as well as to his wife, and her guests. _

_I remain, _

_Lady Catherine de Bourgh_

"Well," Darcy sighed, as he refolded the hideously formal missive, "it's that time of the year once more."

"Do you intend to go, Will?"

"Yes, of course. Aunt Catherine requires my 'assistance in the management of her estate'," he quoted, with a smirk.

"Good. Now, these are my instructions to you - "

"Wh - what?" Darcy sputtered in disbelief. "_Your _instructions to _me_?

Georgie went on, without hearing him. " - I want you to spend ample time out of doors; no more cramming yourself into a study. Ride a horse, walk a path - it doesn't matter in the least how you do it, just get some sunlight and breathe in that Kent air. Then - "

"Georgie," he interrupted, "why are you doing this?"

His sister blanched a bit, then slowly took his hand and held it in her own. "You should have seen the wild, hopeless look in your eyes last night, William. You haven't been at all like yourself for some months now…and I think you need a change."

Well - How could any man deny a young girl her sweet, tender act of mercy towards him? Darcy stood up, kissed his little sister's cheek, thanked her for her love for him, promised not to spend too much time with the books, and set about writing a letter to Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam.

* * *

><p>"Did she tell you to behave with decorum?"<p>

"Yes, as well as to work diligently," Darcy answered his cousin Richard. Their long journey to Kent would soon be at an end, and the two gentlemen had chosen to fill their last tedious hours in the carriage discussing their recent correspondence with their aunt.

"Said the same to me," Richard said, as he languorously stretched his legs to rest on Darcy's seat across him. "She could at least pretend she wished to see us out of affection. But, alas, no! It's all business. And the formality! She signed mine 'I remain, Lady Catherine de Bourgh'! She did the same with yours, I suppose?" Darcy nodded. "Why she shouldn't sign her name 'Aunt Catherine'," Richard continued, "I'll never know. That is how we've always addressed her. However, I have been considering calling her Auntie Cat, just to press her buttons."

Darcy chuckled and playfully pushed Richard's booted feet away. Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam was Darcy's first cousin, on his mother's side. They had spent much of their youth in each other's company, and were quite close, despite the variances in age and character. Richard had some years over his cousin, and possessed a far more lively and agreeable nature than Darcy could ever hope to replicate. They contrasted even in appearance! Whereas Darcy was tall, Richard was short; whereas Darcy was of a broad build, Richard was average in size; whereas Darcy's hair was dark in coloring, and his bright blue eyes heavy with the weight of their dramatic expression, Richard's hair was an almost rosy red, and his copper-colored eyes light and friendly. Yet, they enjoyed each other more than nearly anyone one else; and they were both relieved that every year, in the month of April, they were able to make the agonizing visit to Rosings Park _together_.

"I assume 'Auntie Cat'," Darcy groaned, after a brief moment of silence, "did not emphasize in your letter how anxious Anne is to see you, as she did in mine."

"Ah, yes, the prospective bride most anxious for the company of her remiss suitor!" Richard cried as he feigned a swoon. "Hasn't that old bat got it into her head yet? _You're not going to marry Anne!_"

"No," Darcy replied, shifting awkwardly in his seat at the disrespectful reference to their aunt as an old bat, "Aunt Catherine continues to insist that it is what my mother would have wished." However, they all knew this to be false - all, excepting Aunt Catherine, of course. At every instance throughout Darcy's youth in which his aunt had hinted at the destined union of the young Fitzwilliam Darcy and her little Anne de Bourgh, the late Mrs. Darcy would whisper in her son's ear, "Of course that is rubbish, darling. You may choose whomever you please." Even Anne was aware of the lack of purport in her mother's hopeless wishes, and was in no way as anxious as her mother believed to become Mrs. Fitzwilliam Darcy. "It would never suit," she would often remark, in private moments, to her desired husband. "We are too much alike. I would be always silent, and you would be always silent. I don't think I should like a marriage with a basis on boredom." Yet, in spite of all opposing forces, Aunt Catherine continued in her far-fetched aspirations, due to the fact that no one would dare to oppose her directly. Really - why invoke the dragon's wrath? Who would purposely call forth the unwanted fire?

And Aunt Catherine was indeed capable of breathing fire. The entirety of both the Darcy and the de Bourgh lines had witnessed how great the extent of Lady Catherine's anger could prove to be, if her simplest of wishes was not granted. So they petted her, and fawned after her, and saw that her every demand was met; - ensuring that these duties were carried out was the central purpose of Darcy and Richard's pilgrimage to Rosings Park, the illustrious de Bourgh estate. It was an idea developed by Darcy's father: schedule an annual visit with her! make her happy, and she will never have cause to complain! Those visits continued to this day, with Darcy and Richard as the leaders of the operation. Say some pretty things to dear Auntie, see that the estate is well-managed, and _get out_ - thus was their strategy for past visits, and so it would be this year.

"You know, Darce," Richard said after a moment of silence, - and in a voice uncommonly solemn - , "I believe Auntie Cat is partly right." Darcy scarcely had time to open his mouth in shock at the idea of his cousin agreeing with their aunt, before Richard continued, "You shouldn't marry Anne - but, you should marry _someone_, you know."

Darcy chuckled a bit under his breath, not at all certain if Richard was serious, or merely teasing him. "The tenacious bachelor, ordering _me _to wed? Forgive my shock."

"Darcy, this isn't about me; I am quite content in my solitude," Richard replied in that superior tone, often relied upon to remind Darcy which of the two of them was the elder.

"I am quite content, as well." Darcy opened a leather-bound volume of something-or-other that was laid beside him on the seat, and held it in front of his face, - just to show how truly content he was, and how _finished _with the present conversation.

"It's upside down."

"_Dammit._" He moved to turn the book around, but Richard reached out and pulled it from his hands. "You are a miserable man," Richard asserted, in a voice loud enough to be well heard over the grinding and rumbling of the carriage wheels.

"I am happy!" Darcy returned, just as loudly.

Richard's only response to that statement was a derisive snort. "You need companionship! Confound it, Darcy, there must be some woman in the world you can condescend to love!"

Darcy fell into silence, and turned to look out the window, trying with his fiercest effort to suppress any thoughts of Elizabeth. "R - Regardless," Darcy continued, as he swallowed over a stutter, "I am incapable of being loved."

"True," Richard returned, never having been one for entertaining self-pity. "You're an ass." When Darcy scarcely blinked at that remark, Richard laughed and continued, "But you are a lovable ass, at that. You have a good heart, and you should find a good woman to take care of it."

"Georgiana has also been urging me to wed," Darcy sighed, as he rubbed his temples.

"Because she has sense, unlike you. I'm so glad to hear she's recovered from that damned Wickham incident." Darcy's consecutive grimace at the mention of George Wickham inspired the Colonel to look for a change of subject. "Say, could that be our aunt's new rector, bowing to us from the side of the road?"

Darcy fought the impulse to throw himself under the wheels of the carriage. "Yes," Darcy confirmed in a low voice, as he looked out the window and saw the fat figure of the man he had met in Hertfordshire last November. "Mr. Collins."

"Do you know him?" Richard asked in amused incredulity.

"I met him while I was while visiting Bingley's rented estate." Agonizing visions of William Collins at the Netherfield Ball, first of his treading on Elizabeth's toes, and then his later having the audacity to claim the right of introducing _himself_ to Darcy, seeing as he was 'the fortunate subordinate of his most gracious and majestic aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh' - (Those were the man's words, certainly not Darcy's), - as well as various other disgusting memories of the parson, sprang painfully into his mind. He had forgotten until this moment the expected presence of the vexing man; and Darcy found his desire to race home to Pemberley speedily mounting…

"Ah, a relaxing sojourn in the beautiful and romantic countryside," Richard said, with another dramatic swoon. "Hertfordshire, was it not? Didn't you find any love there?"

Well, - now he truly did wish to throw himself under the carriage.

Darcy's palms began to sweat, and his forehead felt the pounding heat of anxious pressure. However, he was able to reply, with some outward composure, "Bingley most certainly did."

"Ha! That man _would_ fall in love in less than a month! - You should be more like him. Well, have they set a date?"

"No, and they never shall - there is to be no date, and no wedding. I was able to convince Bingley that the marriage would not suit. The young lady was kind enough; but her connections left much to be desired, her family's virtuousness was…questionable, and regardless I do not believe she returned his love." To his cousin, Darcy pressed his examination of the case with passionate conviction; - but his words, as they were spoken, flowed like liquid transgression in his own ears, as if he were yet attempting to satisfy his conscience.

Richard, on the other hand, appeared quite convinced. "Woman of stone, was she?"

"Solid concrete. Hard enough to break a man's heart; and I don't believe Bingley's can withstand a single crack."

Richard nodded in somber agreement, and after a moment opened his mouth to continue, - or so Darcy suspected, - his lecture on the potentialities of matrimonial felicity, when the carriage came to a decided stop.

They had, at last, reached Rosings Park.

* * *

><p>It was interesting, how two grown men could be reduced to shame-faced children, when under the poignant gaze of a tyrant aunt seated at her throne.<p>

"You are late," Lady Catherine de Bourgh, straight-faced and condemning, said as her first greeting to her nephews. "You promised to arrive in the morning, and it is now late afternoon." Aunt Catherine was, as ever, frighteningly elegant in her wrath. Catherine de Bough - once known as Catherine Fitzwilliam - was renowned throughout her set as being cold and cruel, and thereby high-measured in class and sophistication. Her sharp cheek bones, shrewd eyes and reptilian finger-claws were, in the eyes of the world at large, marks of good breeding - good manners - good mind. Only her closest family relations questioned the goodness of her heart.

Richard cleared his throat, causing an awkward sound to echo throughout the long dimensions of the quiet drawing room. "Well, _Auntie Cat_, - " The instantaneous flare of anger that arose in their aunt's eyes suggested that the Colonel dismiss that name - forever. "_Aunt Catherine_," Richard corrected, "the journey was long, and the horses required rest - "

"I will hear none of your excuses. Fitzwilliam, be seated here," - here Aunt Catherine indicated to Richard a seat beside her - "and, Darcy, you may sit there, next to Anne."

Darcy inwardly recoiled from yet another matchmaking tactic on the part of his aunt; but, nevertheless, he nodded, - having chosen to remain as silent as possible in the presence of Aunt Catherine's fury, - and took the desired seat near his cousin. For a moment, there was a decided quiet, until Aunt Catherine at last deigned to recognize her ill-mannered nephews, and began a formal conversation with Colonel Fitzwilliam. Darcy took advantage of his aunt's distraction, and turned to speak in hushed tones to his cousin. "How are you faring, Anne?"

"Much as always," Anne sighed. She lifted her hand to her lips to cover a cough. "My health is bad, - my spirits worse."

Darcy took her small, cold hand consolingly in his own. "This year," he assured her, with an almost paternal countenance, "I will sway Aunt Catherine, and you will be allowed an entire afternoon of sunshine."

Anne shook her head in dismay. "Mama will never allow it." At a young age, Anne was diagnosed by a physician of worldly renown as being 'ill by nature'. After she had narrowly survived a serious lung fever, as well as suffered various colds and headaches, the physician had recommended to Lady Catherine de Bourgh that her daughter be treated delicately, as was required by her delicate constitution - meaning scheduled tea and draughts, long rest periods throughout the day, and little to no contact with the outdoors. Excepting the occasional drive in the phaeton, - during which Anne was always, summer or fall, covered in various throws and furs to ward off any chill, - Miss de Bourgh was kept locked in the stony solitude that was her home at Rosings. The atmosphere surrounding her was nothing but dust, lavish furnishings, and grim paintings of dead relatives, - viewed under the thick layer of a constantly worn veil of black lace.

"I _will _convince her." In the past, many had attempted to persuade Lady Catherine that the key to her daughter's good health was sun, and activity in it, but all had failed; however, _this year _Darcy was determined to rescue his cousin from her solitude. Perhaps the reason for his sudden perseverance was that, of late, he understood what it was to feel empty and alone. Loveless, lifeless.

Darcy's assertion of his promise sparked a brief flicker of hope in Anne's grayish-blue eyes. "Well," she remarked with a wry smile, "God's blessing be with you. I pray you return from battle with all your limbs intact."

"Anne," Aunt Catherine's dictatorial voice suddenly rang out, "it is time for you to retire, and I believe I shall rest as well. I have been so long waiting for my nephews it has exhausted me." Without another word to Richard or Darcy, Aunt Catherine swept gracefully out of the room, a gloomy Anne in her wake.

"Well," Richard sighed, as he flopped impudently into Aunt Catherine's throne, "Auntie Cat hasn't changed a bit."

Darcy's brow lifted, and he turned a cautious eye toward the door through which their aunt had just left, half expecting her to sense a disturbance in the air and come back to knock Richard out of her chair. Luckily, Lady Catherine did not return, and Darcy allowed himself a laugh as Richard laid his booted feet across the footstool. Perhaps Georgie had been right, and this little holiday in Kent was the best thing for him -

He hadn't laughed in quite a long time.

* * *

><p>The following morning at Rosings Park began with the shimmering rays of the April sun.<p>

And Mr. Collins.

"The sky above us, sheltering our Lord's dome in heaven, is a remarkable blue, much like the fine blue embroidery of the tapestries, here so beautifully displayed - although, nowhere near as regal in color, surely; - the air is brisk, yet the sun shines, creating warmth enough for comfort, while also welcoming tepidity, and with it all means of covering, - shawls, wraps, and all such attire as will care for the temple that is our bodies, but not, however, display too lavish a show of frivolity through fashion, as her ladyship certainly does not display. I believe this weather will, fortunately, allow accommodation of all dispositions and tempers; therefore, it is my deepest hope that Miss de Bourgh may find the day suitable for a phaeton ride, and not too treacherous to her health, so that there may be great enjoyment for all in this divine day. We must all remember to acknowledge the great gifts we have been granted by Providence in the various beauties of nature, - the babbling willow and whispering brook - the _babbling brook _and _whispering willow_, I mean to say, of course; - we must cherish these, and make use of them in correspondence with our Lord's desire that we make use of the talents we have been granted, while remembering not to make overly-advantageous to our needs our generous resources. Of course we must also remember that our human lives are not made with a pure base on trivial enjoyment; that there is a time for work and study - but! God Himself did rest on the seventh day, a heavenly proof that there must be an expert division of work and play in our daily lives. Her ladyship will, I believe, make good use, both productive and joyful, of the day before her; because, as her ladyship herself stated, it is indeed wonderful weather we are having."

All Mr. Collins's 'great, esteemed patroness Lady Catherine de Bourgh' had said was 'What fine weather we have today'… And _that _had been his response. Throughout the soliloquy, Richard had looked very near pounding his head against the wall, and all Darcy could think was _Oh. My. Good. God. Please. Stop._

"Very beautifully and eloquently said, Mr. Collins," Aunt Catherine said, her eyes gleaming with approval. Mr. Collins did not reply - _thank God _- , but bowed deeply, silently urging his patroness continue. "I hope you say the same in your sermons." And there he went again, on and on and on about heaven knows what! Darcy focused his attention strictly on the window across him - the only window with the curtains drawn to let the sunlight in. Outside he saw the bright and lively blooms of colorful flowers, the precise greenness of sharply trimmed hedge rows…

And Mr. Collins, blocking the window.

Mr. Collins - a man small in stature, stout in width, - was, Darcy thought, the perfect rector for his aunt. The man was constant in his profuse compliments, and always spoke as if he were preaching a sermon - a very very long, dull, meaningless sermon that somehow always led to the same subject: Lady Catherine de Bourgh. As a result, it was not entirely necessary that Darcy should actually _listen _to Mr. Collins's words, a situation which, to Darcy, was most agreeable. He stood, lost in his own uninterrupted thoughts, as Mr. Collins droned on and on. Ah, at last, he could dream of anything he pleased… And yet his reveries were only comprised of darkness, and the sad dimming of a single, hopeless little light…

"Darcy, wake up!" Richard said in a whispered cry, nudging Darcy's shoulder with his own. "Quit your daydreaming! The lion has left its den, and I am hungry for a bit of fun." Darcy looked about and realized that Aunt Catherine had, indeed, retired from the room, and that only Mr. Collins and Anne were in their presence. There was an awkward silence, now that their dominating source of all speech had left them; and just as Mr. Collins opened a mouth full of unrestrained pride at the prospect of filling the empty quiet with more of his drones, Richard suddenly burst out, in a voice so jovial it was almost pain-inducing, "Mr. Collins! I would be so delighted to meet the dear Mrs. and all your charming guests! Tickled pink, even! Say, what if we went up to the parsonage at this very moment? Upon my word, I should find nothing more agreeable!"

Mr. Collins was more than pleased at the wondrous compliment offered him, and with profuse words of gratification, - that Darcy scarcely heard, - said that he would be most happy to walk them to his humble abode, so that they may be introduced to his lovely wife and their two guests.

"Richard," Darcy whispered conspiratorially to his cousin, "did not Aunt Catherine wish to make the introductions…?"

"Yes, precisely, now play along - Anne!" Richard called to their coughing cousin in the corner. "Auntie shouldn't mind if we stepped out for a bit, should she?"

The shock on Anne's face was brief, and barely imperceptible. She quickly feigned an assuring smile, and said in her timid, throaty voice, "Oh, Mama will be delighted that you are making the acquaintance of those at the parsonage, although I believe Mr. Darcy has met them all already. I will inform her of your whereabouts, and I am certain she will be most pleased."

Richard sent Darcy a look that could be easily read as _See? That is how you do it_, then turned to Mr. Collins with a friendly, "Shall we go?" Like a marching battalion of tin soldiers, the three men left the building, each straight in their stances, and set in their determinations. Mr. Collins was determined to make himself seen as the most greatest and most prosperous rector that ever lived; Richard was determined to have as much fun and cause as much trouble as possible; and Darcy…he was determined to ponder over Anne's previous words: _'I believe Mr. Darcy has met them all already'…_

Who were these people, that he had apparently already made their acquaintance?

* * *

><p>Through the entirety of the fairly brief walk to Hunsford Parsonage, Mr. Collins continued his previous methods of babbling and chattering on at no end, with Richard formulating all sorts of new topics to the keep the man going, just as another amusement to add to his already hilarious actions. Darcy, however, remained completely silent, lost in his sparked interest. Had the rector found a wife while he was in Hertfordshire? Darcy sought to look back and remember the faces or names of those he had met during his long-ago stay at Netherfield; and he was stunned when he realized - he could scarcely recall a handful of them. Whoever the girl was, she was most unfortunate, and Darcy would be sure to pray for her and her hideous marriage.<p>

They at last reached the parsonage, a pretty building with a cobblestone walkway, and little flower gardens abounding from all sides. Though not quite certain was it was, something about the place made Darcy smile, as Mr. Collins led them to the doorway. 'My dear," Mr. Collins declared in a quite-pleased-with-himself sort of tone, "I have brought visitors." And, low and behold!, the door opened to reveal a Miss Charlotte Lucas - or, rather, a Mrs. Charlotte Collins, now. Daughter of the St. James-loving Sir William Lucas, he now remembered her well! And there was - oh, what was her name? Maria! Little Maria Lucas, peeking excitedly out the door from behind her sister's shoulder. It was surprisingly pleasing to Darcy to see familiar Hertfordshire faces, and he entered the parsonage with a half-smile of genuine courtesy. He greeted Mrs. Collins and Miss Lucas in his usually blunt and formal way - all the while remembering happy moments spent watching Elizabeth as she had been in the two ladies' company. They were entering a room, - what room he was not completely certain, for he scarcely heard a word spoken, - and for a moment Darcy almost believed himself to have caught the sweet scent of roses and lavender that remained so familiar to him, and then -

…

_Oh, my God. _

"Mr. Darcy, Colonel Fitzwilliam," Mrs. Collins said, "my dear friend, Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Mr. Darcy has already made her acquaintance, of course."

_Oh, my good God. My God. Oh, my… Oh, my God. _

Standing, all sweet smiles and wry, willful loveliness, was his Elizabeth. His dear, beautiful, wonderful Elizabeth - _oh, God! - _He very nearly fell to the floor. Elizabeth, Elizabeth, Elizabeth, oh, dear God, he had missed her. He thought, saw, heard nothing but Elizabeth as he took two unconscious steps into the room, and set about focusing on the rich depths of her chocolate brown eyes, so as not to fall in an awe-struck heap at her feet. Struck by awe he was - struck as if by lightning! -, and struck he would be again, if he ever, after another long and agonizing absence, saw on a sudden that utterly divine figure of a lady standing there, waiting for him, just footsteps away! His manna from heaven…clothed in a silky white morning dress that made her look almost a spirit, fading, fading, soon to vanish if he did not reach out and hold her! For a moment he indeed believed her to be an apparition, a fantasy brought on by his ever increasing insanity. But when he mechanically followed Richard, and walked toward her to make his greetings, as was required, he politely grasped her fingers in his own…and they were there. Sweet, warm, honeysuckle flesh and bone - and for the first time since…since as long as he could possibly remember! he wanted to cry. He wanted to cry, and he wanted to kiss her, and he wanted to hold her, and he wanted to make this woman his, and he wanted his tears to bind her to him - forever and ever - until he died. _Oh, my God, Elizabeth, _his inner mind and heart, at last in perfect synchronization, uttered in a passion-filled sigh, _I think I love - _

Yet he still could not release that final word.

"Miss Bennet."

He automatically watched as Elizabeth, silent, curtsied to him; he automatically took his seat; he automatically appeared attentive to the conversation; he automatically made some drivel-compliment on the house and gardens - his inner self all the while a frenzied whirlpool of repressed thoughts, and desired actions. _I love - KISS HER - I love - TOUCH HER SLIPPERED FOOT - I love - TAKE HER ON THIS __DAMNED__CHAISE__ - I love - _

The thoughts remained unfinished, and the actions undone. His fierce frown and his black brow was, he was sure, wrathful in appearance, as he fought to quench that last word that would bind him a slave forever; but, inwardly, he was melting, his stone and ice heart subject to a feeling he could not very well to describe - a feeling of elation, of pure joy in just breathing the air she breathed; and he was slowly forgetting why he had been so determined to keep himself at a safe distance from her. _Her connections_, he reminded himself. _Her lack of fortune. Her family. _But he looked at her sweet face across him and thought _Dammit, I don't care. _No. Her connections. Her lack of fortune. Her family. But she was suddenly smiling! and he couldn't help but long to speak another word or two to her, to have his voice reach her ears. Her family still the center focus of his mind, he muttered politely, "Your family are in good health, Miss Bennet?"

She looked surprised at the question, but squared her shoulders in the most adorable manner, and answered, "Yes, they are, thank you." Then suddenly a gleam of something indiscernible appeared in her eyes, and she continued: "My eldest sister has been in town these three months. Have you never happened to see her there?"

He froze. He thought on his disgrace, in longing after a woman of the same family from which Bingley's love came. He had forbidden Bingley from any connection with a Miss Bennet, and was called to forbid the same of himself. "I was never fortunate enough to meet her, no," he finally answered, which was the truth. He had not met Miss Jane Bennet during her visit to London, and after he had left Kent he would never again meet Elizabeth.

_But, dammit, I love -_

* * *

><p>The rest of Darcy's day at Rosings Park - flew past him. He spoke little, did nothing, thought only. Over and over the unfinished statement plagued him: <em>I love - I love - I love - <em>But every time he could not finish it. His mind persisted in it's protestations; it had begun to feel like a sickness: when you feel so awful that you wish you could simply give in to the thing and be done for. But no, the body fights back, and so fought Darcy's mind.

At least, when he was awake…

_His dream that night began in the pitch black, empty darkness to which he had grown accustomed. He gasped for air, and reached out for anything his hand could touch, fully expecting to find nothing before him, and then - he felt something. And a tiny, glimmering star appeared before him, and with it a hazy vision of Elizabeth's smile. He felt his lips turn upward in boyish delight, and was astonished to realize that he too had a smile! He reached out his other hand, and two more stars began to shine in the blackness, these unbelievably beautiful and bright, these her eyes - and they called upon him to acknowledge that he too had eyes, and those as well filled the nothing. Then stars abounding formed a glorious waterfall that was her hair, and he buried his now fully present face among it, happier at heart than he had ever been. Stars, stars, filling the darkness that was his heart and creating the glow of her spirit, her kindness, her mirth - shining with the days they had once shared, and longing to be joined by days future. She overcame him. Every protestation was thrown to the wind, and his only focus was the starry sky above him, as he swore by every thing he could think of: _

_"Bright, shining stars, dear sweet __**God above**__, all things holy in Heaven, I love - !" _

"I love you!" Darcy cried as awoke, bolting upright from under the covers. "I…" He smiled, once more, in boyish delight.

"I love you."


	15. Chapter 15

_Author's Note: In our last chapter of Mr. Darcy's Dreams, Mr. Darcy at last acknowledged his love for Elizabeth Bennet. Let's see what happens next. ;) Thanks, and happy reading! _

* * *

><p>Chapter XV<p>

A Matter of Instinct - A Matter of Chance

Much to the horror of his Auntie Cat, Darcy laid abed well past the breakfast hour.

Good God, he loved her…

It was so damned simple! How could he not have seen it before? Darcy smiled at the underside of the ancient four poster bed in which he now laid, shirtless, disheveled, and blissfully happy. It was as though an enormous weight had been at last taken from him, forgotten and tossed into the dust. How could he not know - how much he adored her every movement? How much he savored the air she breathed? How enamored he was with her spirit alone, that provocative beacon of light that could urge his soul across a room with its shine? Like a boy first smitten, Darcy chuckled as he began to twist the bedsheets playfully about his fingers, thinking of his Elizabeth - yes, _his _Elizabeth. His Elizabeth's wit, his Elizabeth's intelligence, his Elizabeth's free spirit, his Elizabeth's gladness among the world at large. Yes, she would teach him how to be those things, how to be lively and impassioned. And he would teach her… Whatever an idiot could teach! He was such an _idiot! _for not realizing a love so potent…so true. It was like Faith: in spite of the fact that he had not quite comprehended it straight away, in spite of the fact that the intensity of it had come upon him suddenly, in spite of the fact that it was inexplicable to anyone but himself…he _believed_. Believed with every fiber of his being, every recess of his heart.

Suddenly itching to rise from his comfortable position on the bed, Darcy went to the dressing room and came upon the standing mirror. He had dismissed Kendall for the morning, telling his valet in a slow, flowing tone of voice that must have made him sound as though he were foxed, "I feel so wonderful today. I just want to lie abed for a while. Have your breakfast, my kind, loyal Kendall, for I need nothing now. I'll ring the bell when I'm in need of you…" Now it was near eleven, and he was an absolute mess. He thought the slight stubble on his lips and chin, in addition to the disfigured mass of insanity that was his hair every morning, made him look horribly ugly. Yet, he suddenly thought of waking with Elizabeth at dawn, how she would see him in this irregularly unkempt way; - and he could picture her right beside him, equally disheveled and unutterably lovely. They would be so genuine, the unsightly two of them; so far separated from the cold, air-stifling prison bars of what was their modern world. With honest emotions honestly showed, they would set themselves apart from the ivory-statue Society in which Darcy had been forced to live. At last! he would be separated from the cruel bondage of what was considered propriety, decency, responsibility - those things he feared would one day stifle his soul. Because she made him feel _alive. _He could be happy, he could have energy, and he could walk about shirtless and barefoot and disgusting. Because she loved him.

Then a thought came to him: _Did _she love him? It was something he had not previously considered, so focused he had been on denying his own affections. Did she love him? _How could she_? the self-flagellating part of Darcy's mind scorned with a flash of the imaginary whip. He was the sad-faced troll, not the dashing prince, of the romantic fairy-tale stories; he was the ugly rock, not the picturesque mountain; he was the evanescent smoke, not the blazing fire.

And yet - what if he was, by some divine miracle, the sort of husband Elizabeth Bennet envisioned? What if she liked trolls, and rocks, and smoke, and all other such unmemorable, undesirable things that could be used to describe him? Would she smile at him, he wondered, and tell him that he was more than he seemed? that a troll was really a prince, a rock a mountain, smoke a fire - or, better yet, that what he was was better to her than all those things combined?

No, Darcy thought with a shake of his head. He could not determine their happiness on hopes that were more than likely to be false. If they were to marry - (That thought alone made Darcy both nervous with anticipation and sick with fear). If they were to marry, two matters of high importance would first have to be investigated. The first: Did Elizabeth Bennet return his love? He was most definitely inexperienced in this field, but he thought that if he heard her words clearly enough, watched her face closely enough, penetrated her brown-eyed gaze deeply enough, he would find the truth in her.

Then the second was this: Was a marriage the best thing for them? Certainly, he had ten thousand a year to recommend him; but could she overlook his…well…everything awkward and bland that he was? She was everything a man could ask for in his wife; but could he overlook her lack of fortune, her low station, her absurd family, and willfully ignore the wishes and desires of his own family by doing so? Would they be happy together? Even when they were not happy, could they make themselves so? United, would they be strong? Darcy was uncertain as to how one went about predicting marital joys. He supposed it was a matter of instinct - or a matter of chance.

* * *

><p>Darcy had always loved Sundays.<p>

Sundays meant church services. And church services meant…peace. Thank the Lord, peace with which to begin his week. It always seemed as though the air around him were buzzing. Monday through Saturday his ears would ring as he sped through the loudness and the anxiety of the average day, both generally being caused by - _people_. People, always forcing him to speak just so, and look just so, and act just so in order to appease their appetites for polite Society gentlemen… Unfortunately, Darcy always found himself unable to perform under such strong public pressure; and he ended each of those days wondering how its agonizing hours could have been, had he done better.

But Sundays… On Sundays, Darcy could sit in a beautiful church, listen in blessed silence to the liturgy, even sing! - if he was feeling bold that week; - and he could think of the good things in this world, rather than of the upsetting and agitating. He could reflect upon the many blessings in his life, escaping at last from his sinful indulgences in self-pity, and then attempt to make himself a better man.

All the while looking in pure, unadulterated wonder on the splendor that is the rich, soul-piercing illumination of a beautiful stained glass window.

That Sunday, Mr. Darcy sat in Aunt Catherine's special area of the church seating; for she was, of course, the parish's 'great, excellent, majestic, illustrious patroness Lady Catherine de Bourgh' as Mr. Collins so often put it, give or take a few adjectives. Anne was on his right side, Richard was on his left, and Lady Catherine was somehow separated from the rest of them. She sat steel-backed and brutal-looking, and though she was not physically removed from them, appeared to be an entire ocean away - in a boat that made room only for one, and in which she bobbed tranquilly with the steady waves of her menace.

The church building, however, was nowhere near as cold and uninviting as its patroness. It was of decent size and comely architecture, with decoration not too foreboding; and space was enough so as not to brook confinement, though the surrounding atmosphere still emitted a feeling of natural closeness that only a welcoming place can provide. Darcy was extremely comfortable and found himself quite at ease in the setting; indeed, the only unpleasant aspect of the scene was Mr. Collins standing at the podium. Regardless of the man's idiocy, Darcy sat in attention of Mr. Collins' sermon, determined that he would do the Lord proud and find something of value to learn today.

Fitzwilliam Darcy considered himself a man of Faith, the reason for his belief being that he simply could not fathom the wonders of this world having come to be by any other force than that of a Holy One. Therefore, he loyally attended services every Sunday, and every night he prayed - prayed for the strength to continue on in his life, and to continue well throughout.

However, when Mr. Collins was sermonizing there was _no_ holy message to be found. Darcy found the man's preaching to be as meaningless as his conversation, every word containing cryptic compliments to his beloved patroness. Darcy blinked and refocused, then gave his entire system a mental shake, but no matter the strength of his efforts Darcy could not find the sermon's meaning, or even begin to concentrate enough to do so. So - he shifted his gaze to rest on the bright-colored shadows of the stained glass windows above, and set his mind to thinking of things good and holy.

How could he improve himself? was a question Darcy often posed in his mind during these spiritual moments. There were near a thousand answers he could provide; however, at the moment, there was but one in particular that stood in the forefront.

What could possibly be more beneficial to himself - mentally, emotionally, spiritually - than a union with the best and most virtuous woman ever to walk the earth?

Almost as if it were destined, Darcy's eyes settled and locked on a yellowish-green ray of light that shone dim and airy from one of the stained glass windows and into the church, coming to rest on the fetching figure of one Elizabeth Bennet. She was wearing a simple mint green gown (that was somehow delicious to him in its charming put-together-ed-ness), and she sat with her hands folded humbly in her lap. Though he was far from her, Darcy could well observe her expression. With her chin lifted, eyes opened wide, and lips slightly parted, she appeared the absolute epiphany of complete and undivided attention. But Darcy knew better - he knew she was struggling as he was to attend the sermon, and that her adopted expression of intense observation was merely her own adorable method of concentration. _If I position myself as though I am focused, _he could imagine her thinking, _I will be focused. _But it was to no avail; Darcy could see the abstracted glaze over her brown eyes as they slid just briefly to glance upwards, seeking for the barest moment the light of the same window he had looked on.

Heavens above, how he loved her...

Though physically they were nowhere near each other now, Darcy could feel a spiritual bond between them. He could sense that she desired the same things he did, the same loyalty and love that would come to make them both fully good and righteous people. Darcy, though he was Faithful, knew without a doubt that he always required self-improvement as regarded the fortitude and dedication of that Faith. And - why! - with a wife such as Elizabeth beside him, how could he help but become a righteous man? He had always desired belief strong, mind pure, charity unbounding; - he craved anger subdued, temptation quelled, sin vanquished. In short, he longed for perfection. He by no means expected perfection from Elizabeth; - she was extremely human, one of the many things about her he adored. But she, in all her kindness and genuineness, would surely bring him at least a step or two closer to a utopia.

His convictions regarding this were so unbelievably strong, that he was very near deciding then and there that this marriage would without a doubt be the best thing for them both. Unfortunately, however, he could not fully trust his own thoughts. He needed something that would assure him, both heart and mind, that together they could find fulfillment.

And then a sign came that cast every shadow of doubt from him.

*"He that is unmarried," Mr. Collins suddenly quoted from the Scripture, in continuation of a topic to which Darcy had not been listening, "careth for the things that belong to the Lord, how he may please the Lord: But he that is married careth for the things that are of the world, how he may please his wife.

"There is a difference also between a wife and a virgin. The unmarried woman careth for the things of the Lord, that she may be holy both in body and in spirit: but she that is married careth for the things of the world, how she may please her husband." Mr. Collins finished this section with a smile of self-satisfaction at his reading of it, though completely unaware of the words' poignancy in Darcy's heart. "And this I speak for your own profit; not that I may cast a snare upon you, but for that which is comely, and that ye may attend upon the Lord without distraction." _Yes, yes, without distraction!_ Darcy's mind screamed in commendation of the words' perfect fitness.

"But if any man think that he behaveth uncomely to his virgin, if she pass the flower of her age," Mr. Collins went on, speaking with great emphasis, "and need so require, let him do what he will, he sinneth not: -

" - let them marry."

* * *

><p>Darcy spent the majority of that Monday through Saturday indoors, and in sullen contemplation.<p>

Richard had been many times to Hunsford Parsonage, and there was no end to his raptures on the loveliness and liveliness of Elizabeth Bennet. "If Pater wouldn't bite my head off for it," Richard had been heard many times to exclaim, "I'd ask for her hand now!" Darcy wondered if Richard were jesting, an activity that had always seemed to serve as the focal point of his life, or if his cousin was in truth serious competition…

Darcy knew himself to absurd, and he told himself he was _not _jealous. However, he could not help but be fully aware of Richard's graciousness and charm, in comparison to his own lack thereof.

Darcy had already confirmed, in an inconceivable moment of vision, that he and Elizabeth would suit each other well in the eyes of God. Now, there was just one thing to confirm: that Elizabeth returned his love. But how could he even begin to attempt such an investigation, without first possessing the approachability and charm that helped a gentleman speak well to a lady? How could he survey her feelings if she found herself unable to express them in conversation with a dull, awkward, unfriendly man?

So, throughout the week, Darcy found himself pacing floors, practicing _the art of being suave_. Never in his life had he felt more ridiculous; but he could not help testing a smile as he passed a mirror, or endeavoring when alone to melt his hard voice of ice into a warm, appealing tone.

One day, in the late Sir Lewis de Bourgh's study, Darcy was pacing across the patterned rugs as he spoke aloud to himself, the stack of papers on the desk concerning Rosings' management entirely forgotten. "Good morning, M - Miss Bennet," he repeated for, oh, the twenty-billionth time. No, no, it still wasn't right. His voice was so deep as to be frightening, and a ghastly sounding croak still escaped his throat when he fought to squelch a nervous stutter.

"Miss B - Bennet," he tried again. Damn - that was it. It was impossible. Darcy threw himself into a chair and released a frustrated sigh as he deflated. "It is beyond the powers of mortal man," Darcy thought aloud, "to determine the love of a woman.

"How to guess…at such vital information! How, in the name of God, does an idiot go about - "

Darcy was interrupted by the sound of applause, as Richard entered the room in slow stride. "Bravo, bravo!" he cried.

"Dammit, Richard," Darcy muttered as felt his face begin to flush. He looked down at his crossed ankles, determined not to show his cousin any more emotion than he had already displayed. "How much did you hear?"

"Well, it began somewhere near mortal man." - Darcy inwardly rejoiced that Elizabeth's name had not been heard, as Richard continued teasingly on: "I say, Darce, your line reading leaves much to be desired." Darcy looked at Richard and lifted a questioning brow. "You were reciting from a play, weren't you? At least that is the impression I was given."

"Oh… Yes," Darcy slowly replied, still hesitant to believe his constant comic of a cousin. "Yes, of course."

"Well," Richard said, as he came and took a seat next to Darcy, "whoever the playwright is, he's damned stupid, if you ask me."

Darcy turned sharply to face him. "How do you mean?"

"There is no point in even endeavoring to determine the thoughts or feelings of a woman! You can never understand them, because they are so different from us. Though they are generally more intelligent, I admit, a woman cannot simply reach a conclusion. On the road to the City of Gold, a man journeys straight on and stays directly on the path. A woman, on the other hand, has to turn about to make certain she hasn't lost her way, try this and that short cut, stop and look for souvenirs."

Darcy chuckled, then took a moment to readapt his voice to a more nonchalant tone before he said, "And from the City of Gold you know that a man cannot see a lady's heart?"

Richard shrugged. "Not generally. However, there are some signs…"

"Yes?" Darcy urged him eagerly.

The colonel's mouth bent into what Darcy feared was a knowing smile. "Well, you know, the usual things: smiles, blushes, feather-light touches - in short, everything a determined bachelor, such as myself, seeks to avoid."

"And how if the lady is not usual?"

Richard's eyes widened at his cousin's tenacity. "_Not _usual?"

"How if she is beyond the usual female?" Darcy persisted, his voice raised. "Then the 'usual things' are not enough! How do you verify the affections of a goddess?"

Richard gave him a suggestive smirk. "Fallen into a love affair with Venus?"

"No," Darcy answered, smiling fondly and chuckling under his breath. "No, Minerva, more the like. Goddess of war." Darcy smiled in silence for a moment, then caught himself and all but jumped from his chair. "No, there is no love affair! I was… I was merely indulging you in your damned conversation, don't be a fool."

Richard regarded him in silence, then stood. "Hmm, I shall try, Darcy, I shall try. Anyway, I only came to tell _you_ what Auntie Cat has told me. We will be having guests after the Easter Sunday services - Mr. Collins and his troop, or, as I would prefer to call them, Miss Bennet and everyone else."

Darcy felt the muscles in his jaw clench. "Have you been to the Parsonage again today?"

"Naturally. That Miss Elizabeth has made this the most delightful visit to Rosings I have and will ever hope to experience. Better than Venus and Minerva combined, she is. Better than all of Mount Olympus, if you ask me!" Then Richard gave Darcy a hearty pat on the back and left the room.

"Yes…" Darcy sighed. "Yes, I cannot help but agree."

* * *

><p>Darcy had created a highly developed list as he readied himself for the Easter service.<p>

It was a mental list of manifest signs of attraction, attention, and affection, for which he would search in Elizabeth Bennet. And it was thus:

Shining eyes, trembling hands, lips prone to being licked (the signs of attraction); fixed gazes, instigations of conversation, multiple utterances of his name (the signs of attention); sweet smiles, brief touches, and displays of genuine concern (the especially longed for signs of affection).

For these things he would watch attentively, and to his list he would refer when at the end of the evening he asked himself, "Could she love me?"

Darcy was extremely uncertain as to the usefulness of his endeavors. He had only supposed these to be the indicators of love; for romance, he knew, was not a science, and love therefore could not be predicted systematically. But, surely, - so he asserted repeatedly in his own mind, - surely, these things embodied a person in love. To them all Darcy was certain he himself was susceptible, so by the same standards he would judge Elizabeth's love - the love he prayed was real, and not a mere puff of his imagination.

The service that morning was beautiful and touching; the light of the early sun shone cool but bright through the stained glass, and every word of the Scripture was spoken with a tangible abundance of Easter reverence. Mrs. Collins and her party, in honor of the special occasion, were invited to sit in the patron pew. Poor cousin Anne was again to Darcy's right, - but to his left sat Elizabeth.

He was extremely distracted.

Determined as Darcy was to follow the service, it had been months since he had sat directly beside Elizabeth in this manner, and he had forgotten the heady pleasure there was to be found in her extreme closeness. They were nearly shoulder to shoulder (or, rather, shoulder to mid-upper-arm, due to their differences in height), just a thin line of air separating his olive green coat from her pale yellow dress. If Darcy glanced just briefly downward and out the corner of his eye, he was provided a generous view of the milky white skin at her collar bone, under which rested the daisy-trimmed neckline of her gown. He would then move his gaze upward, determined not to entertain such a lewd viewpoint; but from that angle he could see her enchanting profile, haloed by the light of the stained glass windows. For near the entire service she attempted, - adorably, and in vain, - to keep the loose scraggles of her hair inside its coiffure, tucking one delectably dark tendril after another behind her ear… By that time, he would force himself not to look on her at all. But he could still hear her breath, and certainly not feel but sense the outward movements of her upper body as her lungs filled with air…

Angered by his weakness, Darcy listened to Mr. Collins' entire sermon, attentive to every last word so as not to be held under Elizabeth's power. Yet his subconscious remained her prisoner, and without any foresight or intention, his foot fleetingly brushed her yellow skirt. Darcy was certain she could not have perceived the movement - in fact, Darcy barely felt it himself. But at just the same pristine moment… Their heads turned, a fraction so slightly, his to the left and hers to the right. And their unguarded eyes _locked_.

_Fixed gazes, _Darcy thought in wonderment as he recalled this item from his list, his eyes not leaving hers, even when she turned from him.

… _Check._

* * *

><p>As promised, Lady Catherine spoke to her rector directly after the service, and invited Mr. and Mrs. Collins and their guests to come to her that evening.<p>

Well, no, it was not so much an _invitation _as it was an expectation: "Mr. Collins, you will bring your guests to Rosings in the evening."

Mr. Collins was clearly well aware what precise hour his patroness considered 'in the evening', for he and his party arrived at what was apparently considered prompt. As her guests entered the drawing room, Lady Catherine thanked the man demurely for his attendance of time, and Mr. Collins was manifestly overwhelmed with rapture as he bowed below her ladyship's throne.

To this transaction Darcy was only half attentive; his eyes fixed on Elizabeth the moment she appeared in the doorway. She wore a gown of deep red silk - a color Darcy found highly provocative, and in which he had never before seen her; - and she entered in an almost visible haze of anticipation, as she eagerly turned her eyes toward those who were already seated. Darcy rose slowly from his seat to greet her - to greet _all _of them, of course, - wondering if it was his company to which she so looked forward.

His heart thrilled when she looked to him before his agreeable cousin.

Making sure to subdue any outward appearance of eagerness, Darcy stepped forward. "Miss Bennet," he greeted her in what was barely a breath. He took a soft hold of her fingertips, his teeth gnashing together to sustain the sensation that spread languorously through him when the heat of her flesh crept and crawled into his own. "You look…lovely this evening," he finished with an effort.

"Thank you," Elizabeth replied, with a face and voice that openly expressed what was either surprise or confusion. Or possibly both. She recovered quickly, however, and readily transferred her hand to that of the awaiting Richard.

And from then on she scarcely spoke to _anyone but _Richard.

That cloudy atmosphere of anticipation that surrounded Elizabeth when she first arrived had returned in full when she took a seat beside the colonel. They were obviously and damnably enraptured by each other's company, for they smiled and laughed most companionably whilst engaging in a closed discussion on anything and everything - favorite books, beautiful music, charming Kent, delightful Hertfordshire, where they had traveled, how much they liked staying at home, and on and on and on.

Well, good God, there _were _other people in the room!

And by other people he meant…himself.

Unfortunately, Aunt Catherine was well aware of Darcy's presence beside her, and to him she directed the majority of her opinions on everything in the world. Darcy did his best to appear attentive, but he could not help himself from glancing in curiosity and frustration at the indomitable bubble of entertainment his cousin was creating with the love of his life just across the room. In time, Aunt Catherine was also made aware of the singular inseparability of her guest and her nephew, and after many a peeved look of frustration in their general direction, she cried out to Richard, "What is that you are saying, Fitzwilliam? What is it you are talking of? What are you telling Miss Bennet? Let me hear what it is." Darcy had never before heard four sentences uttered in faster succession.

Richard stifled an expression of what Darcy recognized as being amused exasperation and turned to their aunt. "We are speaking of music, madam," he answered.

"Of music! Then pray speak aloud. It is of all subjects my delight. I must have my share in the conversation if you are speaking of music." Darcy, Richard, and Anne all shared a brief look of amazement. Catherine de Bourgh? A music lover? As far as they all knew, she was a woman who listened to music only to criticize every note. Their astonishment only increased as Lady Catherine went on to declare that there were few in England who enjoyed music more than herself, or who possessed a better natural taste. Richard nearly choked on his repressed laughter when their aunt said she would have been a great proficient…if she had ever learned to play an instrument. And Anne barely stifled a gasp when her mother declared her another possessor of musical capabilities…had her health ever allowed her to learn. It was Darcy's turn to react when Aunt Catherine turned to him and asked, "How does Georgiana get on, Darcy?"

Darcy smiled, delighted at the opportunity to praise his little one. At his sudden display of energy, Elizabeth turned away from Richard to look full on at him, and Darcy's confidence soared as he spoke openly: "She plays brilliantly, Aunt. I myself am amazed at the extent of her proficiency; she has for this past month been working to create her own complex composition. She makes me the proudest of brothers." He finished a bit embarrassed by his enthusiasm; but he completely recovered at the sight of Elizabeth, smiling softly at him in approval. _Sweet smile. _She had given him a sweet smile, one of the signs of affection he hadn't dared to hope for. It was the briefest of moments, and when it ended it felt beyond reality. Had she truly given him such a gift? Or had it been a second-long dream?

"I am very glad to hear such a good account of her," Aunt Catherine replied, completely oblivious to her nephew's lack of attention, "and pray tell her from me that she cannot expect to excel if she does not practice a great deal."

A smile…for him. Darcy was nearly forced to snap himself out of his state of wonder. "I _assure you_, madam," he said distractedly, "that she does not need such advice. She practices very constantly."

"So much the better. It cannot be done too much." Darcy suppressed a groan and hoped his aunt was finished. She wasn't. "I often tell young ladies that no excellence in music is to be acquired without constant practice. I have told Miss Bennet," - here she turned to glance with barely contained disdain at Elizabeth, - "several times, that she will never play really well unless she practices more; and though Mrs. Collins has no instrument, she is very welcome, as I have often told her, to come to Rosings every day, and play on the pianoforte in Mrs. Jenkinson's room. She would be in nobody's way, you know, in that part of the house."

Darcy closed his eyes in embarrassment and did not answer, Richard let his face fall into his hand, and Anne looked as if she wished to vanish in a puff of smoke. But Aunt Catherine remained unperturbed, and she continued unfalteringly on in her usual mode of discourse.

Later in the evening, Richard all but begged Elizabeth to keep her promise of playing the pianoforte for him. She charmingly agreed, and Richard drew a chair close beside her as she began to play.

Lady Catherine grimaced when Elizabeth played a sour note, then turned to Darcy. "Ladies of Miss Bennet's disposition, Darcy, are often ill-formed in their accomplishments. Miss Bennet apparently has no artistic abilities, and her - " another bad note, " - _musicality_ leaves much to be desired. She told me that she nor none of her sisters draw…" Lady Catherine's voice faded away as Darcy's jealousy - yes, he would admit it now, _jealousy_ - rose and became a long whistle of anger that threatened to break his eardrums with its pitch. Richard whispered something to Elizabeth, and she took advantage of a pause in the music so that she could turn to him…and smile… "Anne, on the other hand, is of a better nature than that; she was born for better things, Darcy, and I remain convinced that if she - "

"Excuse me, Aunt." Darcy simply stood and walked to the other side of the room, leaving his aunt to sit in incredulous astonishment on her throne.

Darcy told himself that he was merely taking a stroll about the drawing room; but he inevitably came to stand at the pianoforte, and at the perfect position in which to see Elizabeth's pleasing figure entire.

He did not find her playing so terrible. In fact, it was quite charming. If her performance was not completely pleasurable to the ears, it was a feast to the eyes of the vibrant and vigorous. A man or woman who possessed any spirit would have to be blind if they could not perceive the contained energy in the lady's hands as they hovered above the keys, or take note of the iron rod of determination that was her spine as her eyes lit in their intensive study of the music. She was like a work of art, the Classical statues of the Romans… So realistic, humanistic, that to a keen and dedicated eye she was a living figure emotionally vitalized - and yet, she appeared positively rigid from head to toe. Darcy thought her to be the most beautiful, the most unorthodox statuary he had ever seen, and he glorified every reflection of her ivory surface; but he wanted to find and adore what was _beneath _the surface of her. He was no Pygmalion in love with a carving, he was in love with _a woman _- a woman he did not know and could not reach beyond her outward lines of stone. But he knew she was there, waiting to discover him when he discovered her. And he wanted to do something outrageous in his quest for her. He wanted to hold her by her primly modeled shoulders, push her against the pianoforte keys with a crash, and kiss her with all his pent passion as he felt her ivory crumble.

Instead, he moved just a touch closer to where she sat, and this did not go unnoticed by Elizabeth. At a pause in the music she turned to him, her perfectly molded lips lifted in an arch smile. "You mean to frighten me, Mr. Darcy, by coming in all this state to hear me? But I will not be alarmed though your sister _does _play so well. There is a stubbornness about me that can never bear to be frightened at the will of others. My courage," she declared with great pride, "always rises with every attempt to intimidate me."

Darcy's every feature was made intense as he came closer to her, and with every step he became more aware of the seething, bubbling soul brimming beneath the commonplace statue, the hidden passion woman to whom he had yet to introduce himself. "I shall not say that you are mistaken," he replied as he looked down at her, "because you really cannot believe me to entertain any design of alarming you; - " He wondered if it would alarm her, should he kiss her lips. Would they, like those of Pygmalion's ivory girl, feel warm, and soulful, and human? His unscrupulous gaze lowered to her mouth, and when his eyes slowly returned upward, hers were bright with… Oh, heaven help him, could it be with - attraction? With passion? He smiled lazily, savoring this heady moment of pure grace; but he did not desire to make her uncomfortable (not, at least, with surrounding company - alone, Darcy would delight in making her feel this uncomfortable and more so), therefore he determined to settle himself and continue teasingly, "And I have had the pleasure of your acquaintance long enough to know that you find great enjoyment in occasionally professing opinions which in fact are not your own." _The opinions of the ivory figure, that the world flocks to and views and tries to comprehend_, Darcy thought.

Elizabeth laughed that hearty chuckle from the gut that Darcy found so hilariously adorable, and said to Colonel Fitzwilliam, "Your cousin will give you a very pretty notion of me, and teach you not to believe a word I say. I am particularly unlucky in meeting with a person so well able to expose my real character, in a part of the world where I had hoped to pass myself off with _some _degree of credit." _Do I know your real character, Elizabeth? Do I? _"Indeed, Mr. Darcy," she continued, returning her gaze to him, "it is _very _ungenerous in you to mention all that you knew to my disadvantage in Hertfordshire - and, give me leave to say, very impolitic too - for it provoking me to retaliate," - here her voice lowered into a tone of faux dangerousness, - "and such things may come out as will shock your relations to hear."

Darcy's lips curved into another easy smile, and he lowered his eyes once more from under his hooded brows, as he said in voice deep and equally dangerous, "I am not afraid of you."

"Pray," Richard interrupted in a loud cry, awkwardly reentering the conversation, "let me hear what you have to accuse him of. I should like to know how he behaves among strangers."

"You shall hear then - " Elizabeth said with a businesslike sanction , " - but prepare yourself for something very dreadful. The first time of my ever seeing him in Hertfordshire, you must know, was at a ball - and at this ball, what do you think he did? He danced only four dances!" Richard chuckled and shook his head despairingly. "I am sorry to pain you - " Elizabeth continued in a lamenting voice, "but so it was. He danced only four dances, though gentleman were scarce; and, _to my certain knowledge _- " here she turned to Darcy with a look of unmistakable feminine accusation, " - more than one young lady was sitting down in want of a partner."

"I - I - " Darcy softly stuttered, trying to keep from being overcome by his embarrassment, " - I had not at that time…the honor of knowing any lady in the assembly beyond my own party."

"Hmm… True," Elizabeth allowed. But then she added words dipped in sarcasm: "And nobody can ever be introduced in a ballroom." Darcy could feel his teeth begin to grind together in a dual mixture of frustration and humiliation, both of which increased tenfold when Elizabeth turned to Richard once more, completely altered in her expression, now having apparently decided that their conversation was over. "Well, Colonel Fitzwilliam, what do I play next? My fingers wait your orders."

"Perhaps," Darcy interjected, "I should have judged better, had I sought an introduction; - " Yes, he should have. Had he sought an introduction to her and asked her to dance, this would be _so _much easier. "But I am…ill qualified to recommend myself to strangers."

"Shall we ask your cousin the reason for this?" Elizabeth said to Colonel Fitzwilliam, not deigning to look at Darcy. "Shall we ask him why a man of sense and education, and who has lived in the world, is ill qualified to recommend himself to strangers?"

"I can answer your question," Richard returned readily. "It is because he will not give himself the trouble."

Darcy gave Richard a look that said _'I will kill you later'_. Then he turned to Elizabeth, and swallowed, and in his deep, lowly voice began: "I certainly do not have the talent which _some _people possess…of conversing easily with those I have never seen before. I - I cannot catch their tone of conversation, or appear interested in their concerns, as I often see done."

"My fingers," Elizabeth returned, completely without pity, "do not move over this instrument in the 'masterly manner' which I see so many women's do. They have not the same force…or rapidity…and do not produce the same expression." Then she at last turned completely round to look at him, and Darcy thought he saw a glimmer of concern in her eyes, accompanied by a subsequent desire to provide guidance. "But then I have always supposed it to be _my own _fault - because I would not take the trouble of practicing. It is not that I do not believe _my _fingers as capable as any other woman's of superior execution."

Darcy considered her words…and at last smiled in admiration of her intelligence and foresight. She was right, of course. He had never - that is… He _could _never… He didn't _want _to try to socialize. He was too afraid to engage in a friendly conversation with any human being who had not duly accepted him, and that included the woman he loved. But how was he to gain her acceptance if he did not _try _to know her? His multiple rehearsals of greeting her were not enough; he would have to gain his courage, like a man, and win her every last drop of attention. So be it - he was determined.

Darcy outwardly concealed his new resolve, and adopted a more light-hearted tone as he teased, "You are certainly right. _You _have employed your time much better. No one admitted to the privilege of hearing you can think _anything _wanting… We…" He suddenly thought of the ivory statue. "We neither of us perform to strangers."

"What are you speaking of?" Lady Catherine suddenly cried, swiftly snapping the moment and tossing it aside. Darcy paid no attention as his aunt approached and Elizabeth returned her attention to the pianoforte. His mind was already set to working at how best to go about this business of _trying_. He was not certain of his methods yet, but he would do it.

They neither of them performed to strangers. But, one day, they would perform _together_. He knew it from that moment on.

It was simply destiny.

* * *

><p>Mr. Darcy laid awake till very late that night.<p>

For hours, he simply stared at the light of the candle on the beside table…

He thought to himself that he should blow it out…

He didn't particularly feel like moving.

But, eventually, the hour got _too _late, and when his eyelids were at last beginning to droop closed, Darcy blew out the flame and dropped unceremoniously onto his pillow. He knew himself to be drifting into sleep; for suddenly strange thoughts had found their way into his mind, things like Mr. Collins sermonizing in a seaside bonnet, or Sir Colin Stanford eating the entire continent in one bite then washing it down with five of the seven seas. So, before his logic was completely lost to him, Darcy summoned up as much of his brain as he could manage and said a quick prayer:

_Dear God, thank you for today. Please help me to get through tonight. Please bless my little Georgie. And everyone. And everything. Please bless…Elizabeth. Please keep her well and happy. _

_Dear God, I… I want to be her comfort, her companion. I promise I will take the greatest care of her, if you could only… Please… If you could only… _

_Make her love me._

* * *

><p>*<em>1 Corinthians 7: 32-36<em>


	16. Chapter 16

_Author's Note: So sorry for the delay, my sweet, wonderful readers! Please, please, do forgive me. In our last chapter, Darcy was endeavoring to determine whether a union with Elizabeth would be the best thing for all. Let us see what conclusion he makes. ;) I hope you all enjoy this chapter so much that you forgive my lateness. Lots of love to you all!_

* * *

><p>Chapter XVI<p>

Clear

The following day was puzzling, perturbing, and…possibly promising.

Dreamy mist of cool, cloud-sent gray filled the morning air, setting a fittingly poignant scene reminiscent of a fantasy as Darcy walked aimlessly amidst perfectly trimmed foliage of vibrant green shrouded by the surrounding water-air.

His thoughts as nebulous as his current atmosphere, Darcy once again stopped mid-stride, and pondered. While in step, his mind wandered conventionally hither and thither, - from dark woes and gloomy worries, to oxygen-chilling embraces and purifying breaths of sweet, moist lovemaking mingled with the dewfall; - he was, however, eventually called upon to take pause, and to undergo the grueling task of determining what the hell he planned to do next.

He would need to spend an ample amount of time with Elizabeth in order to determine - with absolute certainty - her feelings for him. Surely, Darcy thought with a slow, languorous smile, she must have developed some attraction to him. He was a man who considered himself a jester and a novice in many things; but he was a man, and he knew the looks of a woman. As Darcy's thoughts deviated once more toward the lush temptations of wet lips and water-drop beds he slowly resumed in his jaunt, only to stop once more amid the fog. _… Shall I pay a call on her? _he wondered hopelessly. _A - A stupid, unmanning, and no doubt humiliating call on her?_ And, should he call on her, what would he say? What would he do? What tactics would he enable in order to keep his mouth open and his hands _off her_? He insisted to himself that it was necessary he strategize before acting, that he make a plan sure of success and devoid of all embarrassments and misunderstandings! Nevertheless, Hunsford Parsonage continued to beckon silkily to his more rash and daring senses. _Just a call… _it whispered. _A simple call. Where is the harm in that? There will be others present. Nothing untoward could possibly occur. _Those rationalities spoke well to him; but these allurements spoke better: _…You may look on her all you like…You may discover some new mark of love on her… _

His feet inevitably led him further and further into the mist, all the way to the door of the parsonage.

… _This is __it__, _Darcy thought as he stood staring almost dazedly at the bell pull. _This is your last opportunity for escape. _If he pulled this cord, he realized, it would be the action conceding unshakably to his wildest fantasy and his most foolhardy disregard of all things practical. He would - officially - desire that he have this woman as his own. It could very well be the worst decision he could possibly make. It could very well be the ruin his life.

…

Ah, what the hell.

He rang the bell.

His first instincts said: _Run. With that bell you have just summoned the spirits of shame and unsurpassable awkwardness. _Nevertheless, Darcy remained where he stood, even as several minutes passed and no servant came to the door. He rather thought he shouldbe filled with elation - now he could run from his former decisions! run the hell away! never again consider with any seriousness thoughts of love or lust or marriage with Elizabeth Bennet! Instead Darcy was unexpectedly overcome with a bleak disappointment, the kind that cannot be soothed by alternative means. Perhaps he feared for the future, both that soon-approaching and that far, far off; but he longed for Elizabeth's company with a primitive enticement and hunger that surmounted all fright.

_Well, what am I to do? _he thought as outwardly he scoffed. _Barge into the house unannounced? _Seeing as there was not a chance in the whole damning underworld he was going to ring the bell again, Darcy realized with mortified incredulity that 'barging' was his only option.

He shouldn't. It was inconsiderate and ungentlemanly. Yet still there were times when Fitzwilliam Darcy didn't feel very much like being a gentleman, or even feel partial to considering just what was considerate. His anxieties were swimming frenzied inside him; but, dammit, he had brought himself to the edge of the cliff and his only relief now was to jump!

So he jumped. He opened the door with a strength of mind and arm that surprised him.

- As well as the servant who had apparently been making her way to the door and very nearly met it with her face.

"Oh - Oh, my G - G - I am so terribly sorry, are you alright?" What a lovely way to begin this little adventure, he had nearly killed someone.

The poor young girl, who Darcy assumed was one of the parsonage's few household hands, had looked terrified to the point of tears merely by the velocity of the swinging door; but now, when a man of his high station and intimidating stature loomed over her, apologizing to _her _and asking after _her _welfare, she was openly and…annoyingly undone.

"No, sir, no!" she wailed, averted eyes positively flooded. "I'm a s - s - stupid g - girl! I - I - should have c - c - come to the door faster! Stupid, s - stupid!"

Darcy was frozen, completely stunned. "… No, not at all," Darcy said, in a feeble attempt to reassure her. "…We all make mistakes - "

"They all tell me so, all of 'em! Since I first came here!" she continued without hearing. " 'Carrie, you stupid girl! Stupid Carrie! Stupid chit!' "

"Ah, well…that seems...unnecessary - "

"But I've never answered the door before! It wasn't _my _fault it took so long! Lily's s'p'ossed to do it! or Nora! but they were all gone! They've all disappeared to Lord knows where! _So who _- " she interjected with a big, mucous-filled sniff, "_ - Who's stupid now?!_"

Darcy found his handkerchief with a fidgety hand and offered it to her. She only cried harder. A bit peeved now by the never ending weeping, Darcy thought he had better ask after the members of the household. Or perhaps, he thought with a grimace at the sound of the girl's intermittent wheezing, he should find another servant…

"…I'm terribly sorry, er, Carrie, but - "

"_Ohhhhhhhh!_"

"_But may I ask after the ladies of the house?_"he hollered over her. Carrie only looked up in startled confusion. "…Their whereabouts?"

"Oh, I don't know! I never know anything in this house! Stupid, stupid!"

Darcy swallowed a frustrated growl. "Where might they be found?"

"I don't even know that!"

He couldn't help but growl then. The sound vibrated so loudly in his ears he almost couldn't hear Carrie's frightened yelp as he marched determinedly to the room where he had reunited with Elizabeth before.

Darcy was busy preparing his explanation as to why no maid has escorted him to the room - (something about little Carrie feeling uncommonly ill and he, gallant gentleman that he was, insisting he go on alone and she not take another step), - when the door opened to reveal Elizabeth…

And only Elizabeth.

For a moment Darcy was paralyzed purely by shock; he hadn't expected to find Elizabeth alone and consequentially hadn't considered what to do or say upon finding her thus. Should he apologize? How profusely? Should he leave without speaking a word? Should he take action? What action? And why the _hell _must he be placed in such a delicate situation?

Then Darcy looked with the eyes of a lover, and with bright eyes darkening and full heart pounding realized they were completely alone.

She stood at the corner of a writing desk, where she appeared to be in the process of stowing a letter. Her fingers, still lightly clutching the edges of the paper, were pale and ungloved, - bare; the sleeves of her dress too left her arms bare, - they were short and tight, and almost appeared to be biting at her sweet, lovely flesh; the gown itself was a faded white, - with fabric thick and well-fitted to her body, and a neckline low and decadent. But far greater than all these things…was the passionate pink glow of intrigue that burned beneath her visage of confusion. In her mouth, slightly gaping, he saw the hidden longing for contact, for _movement_; and in her widened eyes he saw the sparkle of what could grow to be love if she but looked into a mirror and acknowledged it.

The embroidered shawl she held about her by her one hand slipped from her grasp and fell softly to the floor. "Mr. Darcy!" Elizabeth whisperingly exclaimed as the stars in her dark eyes danced. Darcy swallowed and released a shuddering breath, wanting her love more than anything in the world. Would she say it if she asked him? Would she see it if he himself held her to face her reflection? Or perhaps if she looked in his eyes she would know… He wanted to show her just how much he loved her. He wanted to retrieve the shawl from the floor, bring her within its folds, pull her to him, hold her, kiss her with the words on his lips, press his skin to hers until she understood. Then he would say to her everything he had ever dreamed of saying: _I love you, everything about you, body and soul. You make me more than I am. You make me alive. _

Unfortunately, Darcy was so alive his tongue had become volatile, tripping over itself, poised for words of love and apology and Lord knows what else. He was so lost, so stupid, that he could only raise his blue eyes to her brown and say with devout sincerity, "Forgive me." _Forgive me for being a fool, for being damnably incapable of expressing love. _He coughed, and at last some of gentlemanly reality returned, at least enough so that he could beg her pardon for his intrusion. "I - I had understood _all _the ladies to be within."

Elizabeth nodded her acceptance of his apology, and after a moment of awkward silence hastened to pick her shawl up off of the carpeted floor. His eyes never leaving hers, Darcy did her the service; and (though he wished more than anything to place the soft fabric about her shoulders himself, or to simply do away the frock and wrap her in his own arms) put the shawl in her hesitantly outstretched hand. "Thank you…" Elizabeth mumbled, as her lowered eyelids darted in all directions. "Oh - Oh, please," she interjected in an embarrassed rush of breath, "please do be seated." With an almost blithe gesture towards a circle of chairs about a small table, Elizabeth took her own seat and began gently fingering the petals of the bright yellow blooms sitting in a vase at the table's center. Darcy wanted to pull her down into a chair _with_ him; but, instead, he looked at the seating selection that Elizabeth had so impartially indicated to him and boldly chose the place closest to her.

Elizabeth at last turned from her idle playing, and her eyes widened at his closeness; however, she retained her composure enough to say with casual politeness, "All the residents of Rosings are well, I hope, Mr. Darcy?"

"Y - Yes," Darcy stuttered, struggling to find his voice, "they are all quite well, thank you."

There was silence.

…

"Lady Catherine, Miss de Bourgh, Colonel Fitzwilliam…" she elaborated needlessly.

"All of them well."

…

Darcy feared they would lapse into total silence. He had no idea what to say; and, really, what _could _he say to this beautiful, wonderful woman that wouldn't soil her innocence? He avoided her gorgeous form and turned his eyes toward the ground, hoping that she looked at him all the quiet while. Finally, there came from Elizabeth a burst of energy so conspicuous amidst the uncomfortable tension that Darcy felt its pull and lifted his eyes to meet hers. "How very suddenly you all quitted Netherfield last November, Mr. Darcy!" she exclaimed with voice soft and eyes slightly probing. "It must have been a mostagreeable surprise to Mr. Bingley…to see you all after him so soon for, _if _I recollect right, he went but the day before." She leaned forward, waiting with so much interest for his reply that Darcy was not certain whether to feel elated or concerned. He chose the latter; she spoke too much of Bingley's leaving Netherfield, and Darcy thought it best not to entertain that subject. Tactfully observing that he would remain silent, Elizabeth continued in a friendly tone, "He and his sisters were well, I hope, when you left London."

His recent days in London were a time Darcy did not care to remember, and he didn't very much wish to talk of Bingley, his sisters, Lady Catherine, or anyone who wasn't Elizabeth, but he answered, "Perfectly so - I… I thank you."

…

"I think I have understood that Mr. Bingley has not much idea of ever returning to Netherfield again?"

Darcy suppressed a frustrated groan. "I have never heard him say so," he replied, his words low and succinct. "… But it is probable that he may spend very little of his time there in the future." She appeared disappointed by his answer, and Darcy knew she hoped for a reuniting between his friend and her sister; but Darcy remembered the cold, impartial way with which Miss Jane Bennet accepted Bingley's devoted attentions, and he would not have his greatest friend appearing a hapless fool to anyone, not even the woman he loved. So he declared to Elizabeth in a voice forceful and certain that Mr. Bingley had _so _many friends! and that Mr. Bingley's friends and engagements were, in fact, _continually_ increasing! Elizabeth clearly saw this as the time for retreat: - she said it would probably be best if Mr. Bingley gave up the place entirely, and that he had the right to keep or quit Netherfield according to his convenience. Darcy declared he would not be surprised if Bingley did indeed give up the residence.

There was not much more to say on that subject, thank the Lord. But Elizabeth seemed unable to formulate another topic of conversation; for she turned full on towards him, looked at him with big, open eyes and coughed, signaling to Darcy that it was his turn now.

….Well, damn!, this was it! She had handed him the reigns, gifted _him _the power, given him the slot of time in which he could say or do what he pleased. _Shall we discuss the way your eyes hold mine? Shall we debate whether or not my one hand can hold your entire waist? Shall I tell you I hunger for you? Shall I make you hunger for me too? Shall we speculate that, were you to lie atop me, our bodies would melt together and make one form? Shall I ask to lie with you…and simply hold you? Shall I beg your permission to pay tribute to you with my hands and mouth? Shall I put your hand to my heart, let you feel its ferocious beat, and whisper that I love you? Or shall I find a place more comfortable in which to do it all? _This room is comfortable enough, Darcy thought as his body shuddered with the force of the moment. He was so close to moving his mouth to capture her breath… But Elizabeth was waiting for words; while he had sat dying of desire she had been idly twisting a lock of hair about her finger, bobbing her head and waiting for him to speak. He wanted to give her the words she desired, but he was unable to grasp his voice! She lowered her head, freed the little finger around which she had been curling her dark mahogany tresses, and subtly touched it to her lower lip. _Damn, there must be something I can lay her on in this room. _The table. The table would be comfortable enough."This seems a very comfortable…" She looked up to acknowledge his first words, dipped her head towards him, waited for him to continue… _This seems a very comfortable… _"House."

House.

...Dammit.

"L - Lady Catherine," Darcy went on, struggling to formulate a continuation of his statement, "… I believe, did a great deal to it when Mr. Collins first came to Hunsford!"

Elizabeth lowered her head, laughed a little breathily, and replied, "I believe she did - " Then, after she had stopped short, she leaned a little closer towards him, lifting her upper body with sliding ease to tip near his. Darcy thought his entire circulatory system would burst all at once, as Elizabeth looked up into his eyes, with one dark brow raised, her expression decidedly _intimate _and _mischievous. _"And I am sure," she continued in a conspiratorial whisper, "she could not have bestowed her kindness on a more _grateful_ subject."

It scarcely mattered to Darcy that the words currently making his blood boil were about Mr. Collins. All that captured Darcy's attention was her, and how her playfully sinister eyes now sparkled with laughter. He was in that moment captured by the strongest desire that had ever overtaken him, - the desire to be her husband. To not only see that shining face, but to make it shine, to be what she needed to make her days happy and comfortable and passionate… It was the task he longed for more than any other, and it was entirely for her good. "Mr. Collins appears very fortunate in _his _choice of wife…" Darcy responded with only the slightest emphasis, and in a low-toned, sweeping voice intended to urge her on as he busied his mind with images of their wedding day.

"Yes, indeed; - " said Elizabeth with joyful ease, pleased to speak of her friend's virtues, "his friends may well rejoice in his having met with - one of the _very_ few - sensible women who would have accepted him…or have made him happy if they had." Elizabeth's voice had gradually softened as she spoke, and now she looked musingly into the silence-filled space before her, capturing Darcy's now rapturous attention once more. When, at last, she continued, her voice maintained the same tender volume: "My friend has an excellent understanding - …though I am not certain that I consider her marrying Mr. Collins as the _wisest _thing she ever did. She seems perfectly happy, however," Elizabeth sighed resignedly content, "and in a _prudential _light, it is certainly a very good match for her."

_We would make a match better match_,Darcy thought, _and not only in a prudential light. _In fact, their union would be far from prudential, but in that moment Darcy's rational fears fell over a cliff and away. For the first time in all their acquaintance, Elizabeth had shared her personal feelings with him, and all he could think was _Please, darling, please do that again. _Every day, he wanted to hear her true thoughts, - across the table, in the carriage, beneath the sheets, in each other's arms, at the end of the wedding aisle. They would live together in the bliss and splendor of his home; and when work was hard and grueling, she would come to him in his study, eclipse the massive piles of paper with her smile, and share with him that mind he so adored. She would be quite a ways from her home… But they would be their own family! His thoughts became mingled with his intended reply as he said of Mrs. Collins, "It must be very agreeable to her to be settled within so easy a distance of her own family and friends," and then moved on to thoughts of families and what his and Elizabeth's children would look like. With any luck, they'd have ten little girls who all looked exactly like her.

Elizabeth's tilted her head, mouth slightly gaping. "An easy distance do you call it?" she said dubiously. "Why - it is nearly fifty miles!"

"And what is fifty miles of good road?" he asked, his deep voice somewhat teasing. "Little more than half a day's journey. Yes, I call it a _very _easy distance." It was nothing to the distance that she would soon know: - her current home was near a hundred miles from Pemberley.

Elizabeth voice rose in amused incredulity. "I should never have considered the distance one of the _advantages_ of the match!" she cried. "I should never have said Mrs. Collins was settled _near _her family."

Sweet, adorable, young thing, how he loved her. "It is a proof of your own attachment to Herfordshire… Anything beyond the very neighborhood of Longbourn, I suppose, would appear far." Pretty, precious woman, he could see her homesick, missing her large family; but he smiled, thinking of how he would fill her days with wonder and her nights with pleasure. They would have the biggest family in all England; - a little daughter named Clarissa Anne and a son named after their fathers and seven or eight more would surround them, and Pemberley would be their shared house of love. He would kiss her and hold her and tell her he loved her in every one of Pemberley's hundreds of rooms, and in each would lie her attachment.

As Darcy sat a living juxtaposition in a chair - smiling with shy boyishness, but looking with suggestive eyes that screamed of reproduction, - Elizabeth must have observed the presence of one of the two opposing sides; for she blushed! (whether with mortification, gratification or fury, Darcy was uncertain). "I…do not mean to say that a woman may not be settled _too _near her family…" she remarked in a slow, melting voice.

Darcy's heart stopped. _Gratification_. It must be gratification. By saying a woman can sometimes be settled _too _near her family, she was assuring him that she herself was willing to live far from her own! "Where there is fortune to make the expense of traveling unimportant," she continued, "distance becomes no evil." _I have the fortune, I'll take wherever you please whenever you please, the miles matter not, marry me. _Darcy leaned just slightly forward, wanting to whisper it all against her lips, and Elizabeth's eyes widened at his sudden movement. She cleared her throat and resumed in her previous argument, though Darcy scarcely heard a word. "Ahem - But that is not the case _here._ Mr. and Mrs. Collins have a comfortable income, but not such a one as will allow of frequent journeys - and I am persuaded my friend would not call herself _near _her family under less than…than _half!…_half! the present distance," she finished, triumphantly.

…Darcy took the legs of his chair in his large hands,…moved his chair just an inch towards her,…tipped his chin a fraction lower,…looked beneath his eyelashes at her rose-stained cheeks,…and said in deep, soft, and raspy voice, "…_You _cannot have a right to such very…_strong _local attachment… _You…_cannot have always been at Longbourn."

Elizabeth visibly froze with shock.

_Good God. _

With a silence-tearing screech, Darcy returned his chair to its original position. His hands were shaking with a violence as he grasped the table in search of anything to distract Elizabeth from his damn, _damn_ stupidity! His trembling hand found a newspaper - thank heaven it was a newspaper, it could have very well been the vase, - and he glanced down pretending to read it. "Are you - " He cleared his throat, then strove desperately to make his voice cold, unfeeling. "Are you pleased with Kent?"

"Yes…" Elizabeth replied, reaching confusedly to meet his suddenly commonplace approach towards conversation. "Yes, the… The scenery is lovely. Every view breathtaking…"

"Yes!" he hastened to answer. Then Darcy raised his eyes; - and when he saw how the light streaming through the window behind Elizabeth captured the dark richness of her hair, and lit like the moistness of her eyes, the newspaper fell from his hands. "Breathtaking…"

In that moment they heard a door open, along with a wailing voice that Darcy knew at once to be poor, irritating Carrie. "Oh! That must be Charlotte and Maria," Elizabeth informed him, as if they had been engaging in the most normal and unexciting dialogues in either of their experiences. Darcy stood and waited in a fever of anxiety for the appearance of Mrs. Collins and Miss Lucas, feeling sadness at the interruption of his and Elizabeth's intimate solitude, yet finding relief in the end of the damn blasted awkwardness. At the entrance of the two ladies, who regarded his presence with polite surprise, Darcy explained shortly that he had called expecting every household member to be within.

"Ah, well, we are here now, Mr. Darcy," Mrs. Collins said with a kind smile that did nothing to ease Darcy's mind or nerves. "Please, do retake your seat." Darcy did as she said, and the two new members of their party tried in vain to reestablish the friendliness they had interrupted, Mrs. Collins all the while glancing back and forth between her friend and Darcy.

Darcy stayed only a few more minutes, then at last made his good byes and took his leave. "Good bye, Carrie," he called back in a distracted voice, stepping out of the parsonage and thinking he would never again enter.

Carrie's gasping cries could be heard throughout the Park; - and they suited Darcy's mood perfectly.

* * *

><p>In spite of his original convictions, Darcy did return to Hunsford Parsonage - not once, but multiple times. Sometimes he came with Colonel Fitzwilliam, very occasionally he was accompanied by Aunt Catherine, and only once or twice did Darcy go to the parsonage on his own. Luckily, - or perhaps unluckily, for he was very conflicted in this matter, - Darcy never again happened upon Elizabeth when she was alone, and the two of them shared little to no intimacies in the company of others.<p>

At night, however, Darcy dreamt of the most important, most solemn form of public intimacy between a man and a woman.

Marriage.

The recurring dream followed the same pattern each night…

_Elizabeth walked down the aisle, radiant in a silken wedding gown that was nondescript in his subconscious mind but somehow beautiful and perfectly suited for her. The guests, the wedding party, even the clergyman were all a blur: for she had eyes only for him, and he for her, as they swore to God that they would love and honor each other forever. _

_The wedding night. He saw it in his mind's eye and knew that it could only be this night, more significant in its magic and romance than any other. There was nothing bawdy in the scene, no lewd, detailed images to stir him from his sleep. He held Elizabeth in his arms as gently as he would a child, and yet he clung to her with a grip so fierce in its strength that outside of his dream state his hands truly felt pain. He was struck by a feeling of calmness…contentment…assurance… But he was afraid that she would slip through his hands like sand through a sifter and then blow away, taking her comfort with her. So, rather than letting his hands roam freely about her body, holding her firmly by the hair and having his way with her again and again until the deep lust that had been building within him for so many months was at last satisfied,…he stroked her hair. He stroked her dark, soft tresses, then let his hand whisper down her back, using just the tips of his fingers to caress her skin in soft, light circles. He kissed her nose, then her cheek, and he begged, "Don't leave me," somehow knowing as the words escaped him that she never would. And then he made soft love to her, - never seeing the act and never feeling the need to, - thinking only of their happiness and their future children. _

_Then the children of the future became the the little life-beacons of the present: - soft, tiny tummies and big, sparkling eyes that grew too soon to be older, stronger, and less dependent on father and mother. In a single instant he saw and heard it all, laughing, crying, screaming, vying. But he and Elizabeth stood side by side, taking on each aspect of child-rearing with hearts in their eyes, even as the number of offspring continued growing, growing, growing, because they just couldn't stop making the most passionate and hopeful love to one another, the kind that could only lead to procreation. _

_The dream ended not with a scene or an image, but with a hope… He hoped they'd die together. In the same instant, when all earthly matters were at last settled, he hoped God saw them as a couple so good in their love that they were worthy of entering heaven hand in hand. Or, at least, he added as an afterthought, he hoped he died first. He simply could not watch her die, or even consider living without her._

* * *

><p>One particular morning, after waking from his dream with a pillow in his arms and not Elizabeth, Darcy decided to take a romp about the Park in order to settle his thoughts.<p>

Preferring a more challenging terrain than that of the open path, Darcy twisted and turned amongst the foliage. The additional exercise of dodging trees, rocks, and hedges relaxed his nerves somewhat, clearing space in his brain for consideration of his recurring dream.

If his dream was to be any indication… No. No, Darcy was not the sort of man to believe that he was a psychic, that his dreams spoke to him of the future, or some other such rubbish. However, he did believe in God above…and He did sometimes send messages to His sleeping children. Darcy's romantic longings were certainly nowhere near as important as a flight into Egypt; but perhaps God had smiled on him, and sought to help him in his time of need! So - _If _his dream was to be any indication…he and Elizabeth would have a happy life together.

If his dream was to be any indication, Darcy was no longer obsessed by a physical need for Elizabeth's body. No, Darcy thought with a laugh as he leaned against a large tree trunk. No, no, he still _needed _and _wanted _her. But there were simply…things he felt more important. In the phrase 'making love', if Darcy were writing it down, he would have underlined _love_, ten, twenty times. The 'making', the actions, they were little more than a faded formality in light of the deep love he wished to share with her. Certainly, he wanted to…do things to her - and, damn, he wanted her to do things to him! His mind ought to be burned for the amount of wild, erotic images that had passed through it, imagining just what they would do, and in quite indecent detail. But now, though he was uncertain how this change in him had come to pass,…_his _needs mattered not. She was perfect. His entire body burned for her at the mere thought of her perfection. But - It truly was unimportant to him how they pleasured each other. The thing most important to him now was that he honored and adored her, that he showed her how much he loved her, that he sought more to share their souls than their bodies.

He sounded like a daisy. His father would say so.

But it was the truth,…every bit of it.

Then Darcy thought of the children in his dream, the sweet little things he and Elizabeth had created out of their love, and he smiled. He could still see their sparkling eyes and angel-soft skin as they had been in his mind's eye, and he hungered for their existence just as much as he hungered for making love to their mother, (which, he supposed, was fortunate, seeing as children would come from that act). This was a longing completely unfamiliar to Darcy. He had certainly never disliked children; he saw Georgie more as his daughter than his little sister, and he cared for her, worried for her, and worked for her probably ten times more than the average father towards his offspring. The length of his love and concern for Georgie was beyond exhausting, and, though he had never resented his charge of her, he certainly hadn't desired _more _charges. Until now. Now he wanted at least ten children. Ten; - it was not a random number his subconscious mind had chosen, simply to emphasize his desire that he and Elizabeth bear many children. He wanted _ten_. Even now, as he continued stomping over rocks and circling tree trunks, Darcy was calculating the age differences between each child. If they married in a few months and then started right away…

Darcy shook his head at his folly. He wanted to honor Elizabeth _and _force her to endure childbirth ten times. Nonsense. He was the personification of all nonsense.

But, still, he so desperately wanted those ten children… _So desperately that he saw one of them, as real as his own hand, peeking out at him from behind the trunk of a black walnut tree. She had hair a lighter brown than that of her mother, and eyes exactly like those her late grandmother, Anne Darcy, - angelic, bright, absolutely beautiful. She was a tiny thing, with feet the size of acorns, wearing a pink dress as fluffy as a cloud on her minuscule body, and lacy little ribbons tied in bows in her hair. Clarissa. She was too precious to bear any other name. It meant clear; and Darcy could see her clear as day as he removed his top hat, so as to keep anything from obstructing the perfect sight of her. She took a step closer to him. Darcy held his breath. She smiled. It was Elizabeth's smile. And he returned it. Then she laughed, a giggle that sounded like the tinkling of miniature bells, and ran off onto the path. _

Darcy followed the fantasized figure in a daze. _Clarissa Anne Darcy… _Deep down to tips of veins it was perfect. He followed her around a corner lined with geometric flower beds, enchanted by the little skip in her step. What he supposed to be inlaid parental instinct overtook him, and he suddenly found his ears on the alert, listening attentively for calls of his name or sounds even slightly suggesting danger.

Instead, he heard something quite different.

… _'Greensleeves'_…

He heard Elizabeth humming 'Greensleeves'. But, surely, he must be imagining that, as well. Mother, and Father, and Daughter taking a stroll, Mother humming her sweet melody all the way: the perfect painting of marital bliss. But then he saw her, coming down the path towards him, going the direction opposite his. Odd. He would have thought he'd prefer seeing her by his side, her waist encircled by his arm. Just when Darcy was beginning to think he had last gotten so close to the brink of madness that he was literally losing control of his mind, the world before him suddenly flickered like a lit candle wick, and was renewed. Darcy slowly returned his hat to his head, and took a firm grip on returning reality. He saw Clarissa no longer. But the humming… The humming had continued, grown louder, in fact. And the figure of Elizabeth was with every second moving closer toward him, becoming sharper and clearer to his eye.

Was she…?

No…

Yes.

Yes, she was.

And she was coming straight towards him.

"Hmm hmm-mm hmm hmm hmm hmmmm…" Elizabeth hummed, reaching the chorus as she came to be a mere four or five feet away from him and still did not notice him. She looked down at the ground, right towards the flower beds, left at the black walnut trees, everywhere but directly in front of her; and she probably thought of nothing but _Greensleeves was all my joy…_

He couldn't help himself. He whistled the next line. "Fhwew fhwew fhwew-ew fhwew fhweeew…" Elizabeth gasped, her head shooting sharply upwards from its perusal of the path, meeting his presence with direct surprise. " 'Greensleeves,' " Darcy stated needlessly as he closed the distance between them. Not wishing to frighten her with his ardor, but overwhelmed by a soul-driven need to touch her, he took her hand. He kissed it as a proper gentleman would - softly, without warmth, lips and hand unfamiliar to one another; - but he held her fingers a few instants longer than was proper, and tightened his hold with a familiarity that was far beyond the common mode of any gentleman. Damn, but he suddenly felt bolder, surer in her presence than he ever had. "Miss Bennet, I believe you could be heard throughout the Park," he teased, lifting his mouth from her gloved skin.

Elizabeth's hand stiffened as she removed it from his, but her smile was one of reproachful amusement as she said, "Do you mock me, Mr. Darcy?"

"No. Not mock." He knew his answer to be simple to the point of bewilderment, but he could think of nothing to say simply standing before her, looking into her eyes. Words didn't come because, to him, words were unnecessary. However, realizing that it _was _necessary to act with some decorum before his future wife, - yes, his future wife, it _would _happen, so help him God, - Darcy offered her his arm. "Will you allow me to walk with you?"

She hesitated…then nodded slowly, with a thoughtful grace that Darcy instantly tallied as one of the millions of things about her that left him bewitched. And when she touched her hand softly to his forearm he tallied yet another.

They spoke little, Darcy being only capable of muttering the customary beginnings of conversation: - asking after her health and that of the people she was living with, commenting on the day's weather, and making some trivial conjecture about tomorrow's weather based on that of today. Elizabeth made slight responses, but otherwise remained silent. Darcy was unopposed to the lack of conversation; he relished simply in watching her walk beside him, his arm tingling with her touch and his eyes eating the tea biscuit sight of her wispy hair and light-weight dress as they shivered in the breeze.

Somehow, Darcy unconsciously escorted her back to Hunsford Parsonage. He stopped at the gate and turned to look at her, expecting…he knew not what from her. She had already removed her hand from his person, but he shot his hand toward hers and held it firmly once more. "It was a surprise," Darcy's deep voice melodized, "and a pleasure to happen upon you this morning, Miss Bennet." She nodded, and noticed her indiscreetly swallow. "Yes," she replied, "this has been a…favorite _haunt_ of mine, Mr. Darcy." He did not resist when she removed her hand from his; but his newly enthralled and emboldened heart could not stand to see her depart until something of worth had been said.

Suddenly, Clarissa reappeared in his minds eye, sitting legs crossed in the perfectly trimmed lawn, and a question pounded insistently in his brain. "Miss Bennet," he called, fearing he would regret his being so overly personal.

"Yes?" she asked turning around in her place at the other side of the gate and holding fetchingly to the wrought iron.

"May I ask an…untoward…and completely unrelated question?"

"Those are my favorite kind of questions," she assured him, mock seriously.

Damn, he loved her. Emboldened by her jesting, he spoke straight out, with no meekness. "Do you like children?"

She seemed surprised by the question… But then her lips turned upward in a smile, her eyes slightly glowing. "I adore them. I hope to have a great many of my own someday." Then she curtsied and entered the Parsonage, leaving Darcy alone on the path to die of pure, unadulterated, boyish bliss.

* * *

><p>After meeting Elizabeth in Rosings Park, and subsequently taking note of what route she took in her morning walks, Darcy could hardly resist happening in that direction again the following day.<p>

And the day after that.

The second walk, much like the first walk and all of his visits to Hunsford Parsonage, was chiefly silent, excepting the common formalities. Again, Darcy had relished in the quiet of the air, feeling no express urgency for words. To have her near… To have the beauties of nature all for themselves and themselves alone… What more did he need?

But then a thought struck Darcy in his moony, love-bitten head: Perhaps Elizabeth desired conversation. In Hertfordshire, he had known her to be vivaciously sociable: enjoying the company of both close friends and acquaintances, speaking so charmingly and easily to them all that Darcy had been somewhat envious of her skill. There was _no _possibility of his _ever _becoming as agreeable and admirable as Elizabeth was in company; but perhaps she would appreciate the effort, and perhaps Darcy would be able to determine whether a…a proposal of marriage…would be well-received by her.

Darcy did little to prepare for his third 'haunt' beyond dressing in his finest walking clothes. He had lain awake for hours the night before, pondering what he would say to her, weighing all the possible outcomes of every word he would direct towards her, but the fruits of his labor were none but a foggy head and drooping eyes. So, Darcy determined as he began his third walk, he would rely solely upon his love for Elizabeth to draw suitable words from his lame mouth.

Humming a little bar of 'Greensleeves' to himself, Darcy rounded the corner where he now knew Elizabeth to turn each morning, and he saw her…

She wore a gown entirely of soft, mint green satin, with little ivory-colored flowers adorning the hem. A lace shawl that looked to Darcy like an enchanted sky was wrapped about her shoulders, and on her head of loose, delicious curls was a fetchingly adorable bonnet that seemed to curtsy at its ends. She looked like the winter as it melted into spring, and Darcy wanted to wrap himself in her rare beauty, to keep the turn of season as his treasure.

Instead, he approached with dreamlike determination, touched the entire length of her palm with his strong fingers, and kissed her hand with caressing, adoring lips. "Miss Bennet."

"Hello again, Mr. Darcy," she said with what seemed to be pleasure, or so Darcy surmised, for he still had not raised himself from her hand.

When at last he did look on her face, he met her eyes directly with his; and in a surreal influence of nature, the wind picked up, catching Elizabeth's accessories in its gust. "Oh! Oh, no!" she half-cried, half-laughed, trying in vain to hold both her shawl and her bonnet in place.

"Wait, wait a moment," Darcy said with a low chuckle. "Hold onto your bonnet with your left hand." She did so. "Now, take both ends of your shawl in your right hand… No, both ends - haha!… Yes… Yes, just like that… Now wrap that hand about my arm…" The word 'wrap' put a puzzled look on her face; she placed the hand holding both ends of the shawl delicately upon his forearm, as was proper. "No," he intoned, softly, and deeply. "Like this." Then he took her hand,…slowly wrapped it about the crook of his elbow,…and covered it with his right hand. "…There. Now your shawl is secure… Consider me your anchor." His hand tightened over hers, and their eyes met once more. The wind continued to blow with a fierceness, and as it urged the two just a fraction closer to one another's air, time - as well as Darcy's thoughts - seemingly stopped.

"I…" Elizabeth began, fingers slightly trembling in the cradle of Darcy's hand and arm. "I… I think it might rain tomorrow."

No, no, Darcy thought as the spell around them began to crack, he would _not_ allow them to fall victim to polite turns of phrase again. He began their fighting walk through the strong spring breeze. "Normally, I would find call to rejoice; but however will we walk tomorrow if it is raining?"

"Do you enjoy the rain?" she asked with surprise.

Darcy chuckled. "It is my favorite weather. It…encourages thought… And it keeps the earth alive…" She nodded, considering that. "And it is…quite like a miracle, don't you think?… Water falling from the sky." Her eyes widened as he expressed a belief he had long known them to share. "Yes," she agreed softly. "Yes, I have always thought so.

"But as you said," she hastened to interpose in a more leveled tone of voice, "there will be no walking! And that simply won't do."

"You very much enjoy walking." It was a statement, not a question.

"Yes, there is little in which I find more pleasure. My thoughts are generally in a state of…jumblement - "

He laughed out loud at that. "Jumblement?"

"Why, Mr. Darcy!" she exclaimed, teasingly, though there was genuine shock in her eyes. "Was that hearty laughter?"

"Well, I would not necessarily call it _hearty_…"

"No, I believe that was a _hearty_ laugh, head thrown back and all!" He laughed 'heartily' again. "You should laugh more often, Mr. Darcy… Anywho - My thoughts are often in a state of _jumblement_, and I find that only a brisk walk can clear the _jumble_."

"I have found the same to be true; though I prefer trails a bit more…rustic than this for my walking."

"Yes," Elizabeth laughed, "Rosings Park is somewhat…" She glanced at an octagonal arrangement of tulips and crocuses. "… Neurotic."

"A little more than neurotic, I should think… You know, I believe that is the same flower bed I trampled when I was ten."

"_You_? _You_ trampled flowers? Forgive me, but I find it difficult to imagine you doing anything so rambunctious, Mr. Darcy. I can scarcely imagine you being ten years old!"

"Well, not exactly trampled… My 'dear cousin', the colonel, pushed me, and I fell dead in the center of that flower bed. The gardener nearly had my head."

Elizabeth laughed her beautiful, deep laugh. "And how severely was the colonel punished?"

"Richard wasn't punished at all. I said that I trampled the flower bed."

She stopped and turned to him, mouth slightly gaping. "But why?" He looked into her eyes, not knowing how to explain his past or present behavior; eventually, he settled on a simple shrug, hoping she took no offense to his refraining from answering. "Well," she continued, as they walked on, "who would have thought it? I've walked this way every morning, completely unaware that a crime had taken place here."

"There are few areas of the Park where the colonel and I have not engaged in some physical assault of one another. Is this the only path you take?"

"Yes, I fear I'll lose my way, what with all the foliage looking exactly alike."

"Well," his fingers curled beneath her palm, "when next you are here… I shall show you all the signs, how to differentiate between this triangle of flowers and that triangle of flowers. There is usually one bloom just a centimeter off where it should be."

"Oh!" she breathed. "...But I doubt I would take note of such a thing, Mr. Darcy. Surely, _you _notice because you are a perfectionist."

"Perhaps… But I am nowhere near my aunt in that regard. Her house is just as much a labyrinth as her Park. Every hallway of the upstairs is precisely the same: - two chamber doors on each wall and a table on the left, two chamber doors on each wall and a table on the left."

"Well, I wouldn't know," she replied, with faux disappointment, "for I am not a family guest at Rosings, as you are, Mr. Darcy. Alas, I am deprived of the breathtaking precision of walls and table!"

Rather than find amusement in her jest, Darcy envisioned her indeed being family guest at Rosings, Lady Catherine's niece-in-law, his wife. "… You will be familiar with every wall."

Elizabeth seemed to receive his cryptic assurance with moderate distress; her hand stiffened, and she looked somewhat relieved to see that they were approaching the gates of Hunsford Parsonage. "Well, Mr. Darcy, I wish you the best of luck. For all we know, Colonel Fitzwilliam may be waiting to throw you into a thorny cube of roses."

"I certainly would not put it past him." Then he freed her hand from his arm's grasp, and kissed it so softly that the touch seemed a sigh of the now weakening wind. "Thank you…for another pleasurable morning, E - " He brushed his thumb across the spot he had kissed. "… Miss Elizabeth."

Darcy remained at the Parsonage gate long after he had seen Elizabeth safely ensconced inside. After standing for several minutes with his hands tightly grasping the cold, thin wrought iron bars, he returned to the corner with the geometric flower beds, and picked two tulips and a crocus from the infamous octagon.

* * *

><p>The next morning, in his chambers at Rosings, Darcy was practicing his proposal.<p>

"This may come as a surprise to you," he said to the standing mirror. "Or it may not! But - nevertheless - I… I think we'll suit each other well. But not only _suit_ each other! What I mean to say is…" Darcy removed his mother's sapphire ring from his box of personal objects and returned his gaze to the mirror. "I love you… No. No, that won't do at all."

Suddenly, there was a knock on the door. "Darce!" Richard called. With an effort, Darcy swallowed his irritation. "Enter!"

Richard threw the door open with a lackadaisical flourish. "I wished only to inform you that _I _will be the one escaping Auntie Cat today, meaning that _you_ will stay here and entertain her, as _I _have for the majority of the week now."

Good, good, he was not yet prepared to confront Elizabeth. "Very well, Richard," he answered impassively.

"Yes, you can't monopolize _all _of Miss Bennet's attention."

"Of course n - _What did you say?_"

Richard chuckled, and looked on his cousin with kind, nostalgic eyes. "I know everything, Darcy. I know _you_. And, therefore, I would be an idiot not to see how you dote on her. I approve of your intentions," Richard finished, glancing at the ring Darcy had forgotten to hide from his gaze, "and I approve." Darcy simply stared, not knowing what to say. "Well!" Richard ejaculated, sounding as if the entire world was as he desired it to be. "I'll be leaving now."

"Richard!"

The Colonel halted in his exit, and turned.

"…If you see Miss Bennet…"

Richard smiled conspiratorially, looking much like the boy of reckless abandon who had pushed him into a flower bed. "I'll put in a good word for you."

* * *

><p>"Miss Bennet? Not well?" Lady Catherine cried from her seat at the tea table. "What do you mean not well?"<p>

Mrs. Collins retained her composure as she made Elizabeth's excuses for not attending tea at Rosings that evening. "My friend has fallen ill, your ladyship. The fault of the quick change in weather, I expect."

To Aunt Catherine's mind, a change in weather was hardly excuse enough to ignore one of her invitations. And Mr. Collins clearly knew this well, for he blanched quite penitently, and spoke with urgent profuseness. "My dear Lady Catherine, Miss Elizabeth was so sorry - no, not merely sorry, distraught! overwhelmingly so, in fact! - so overwhelmingly distraught that she was unable to accept your generous invitation, for she was well aware of the great honor you had bestowed upon her, your ladyship, by including her in your afternoon tea, which, as she also knew, is of particular importance to your ladyship and your daughter, its being necessitated by Miss de Bourgh's unfortunate health. However, my wife insisted upon her staying at the Parsonage." Mrs. Collins did not appear pleased to be the recipient of all blame. "And - And, sadly, I feel I must agree with my wife!" Collins hastened to add. "Miss Bennet is remarkably unwell, your ladyship. Her skin, not nearly so fine in its complexion as that of yourself and your daughter, has taken on an even paler shade, severely ashen! Miss Bennet could scarcely stand when we left her at the Parsonage, and I insisted to my wife that we keep our charming guest and any illness she may carry far away from your ladyship, Miss de Bourgh, and your lovely tea. And if, when we return home, Miss Elizabeth is no better, then we will have the apothecary sent for - post haste! - so that Miss Elizabeth will never again be prevented from sharing in another of your lovely evenings at Rosings."

Lady Catherine nodded, accepting the explanation (albeit unwillingly). "Send me word, and I will notify Anne's apothecary; we keep constant correspondence with him. I must admit myself disappointed, for I was hoping to suggest to Miss Bennet that she practice…"

Meanwhile, the blood had drained from Darcy's entire body. Unwell? Deathly pale? Unable to stand? Good God, Elizabeth… She could be dying for all anyone knew, and here they all were drinking tea!… He had been hoping to propose to her later in the evening… And now she had fallen ill! Perhaps it was a sign. He couldn't do this. But, damn, that wasn not important now! What _was _important was that Elizabeth needed him. "Excuse me!" Darcy interjected towards no one in particular, as he bolted from his seat and left the room. "Darce! Darce!" Richard called after him. But he did not hear.

_Oh my God, it's my fault_, Darcy thought as he stormed down the walkways of Rosings Park. _She took so many walks it killed her! Yesterday's wind was too cold and now she's caught her death!_ As he walked, rain began to fall from the graying sky, but he scarcely noticed, and didn't give a damn for the state of his clothes.

Darcy lengthened his strides when he caught his first glimpse of the wrought iron gate, and when he reached the entryway he all but ran. At first he rang the bell, but his concern for Elizabeth overcame all civility, and he threw the door open with a force beyond his usual power of strength. Carrie was crying something about puddles on the floor, but Darcy ignored it, taking the stairs three at a time, praying he wasn't too late.

In all likelihood Elizabeth was lying abed; but if she was indeed ill and helpless Darcy would find her chambers, propriety be damned, and spoon medicine past her lips himself!

But Darcy was somehow drawn to the room where he was usually led during his visits to Hunsford, the room where he had come upon Elizabeth alone what seemed like so long ago, but was, in reality, just a few days before.

He turned the knob and pushed open the door in one unceremonious motion - !

And there she sat. Not quite so near death's door as Mr. Collins had implied.

"Are you... Are you well?" Darcy, dubious and dripping wet, asked breathlessly.

After the surprise had finished registering in her face, Elizabeth looked almost contemptuous. "Not entirely," she answered shortly.

"I came expressly to see for myself whether you had recovered, - are you well? I - I - can send for - "

"No, thank you, Mr. Darcy," she rose from her seat near the window, clearly well able to stand, "I assure you, that will not be necessary."

Despite her assurances, Darcy still feared for Elizabeth's health; her voice had adopted a tone that was unfamiliar to him... It was cold... And sad. "Are you certain?" She nodded. Relieved, Darcy stepped further into the room, and he remembered when he felt a squishing beneath his feet that he was drenched in rainwater. "Shhhh - " he cut off his curse.

Elizabeth's frown softened...then hardened again. "I fear you are ruining Mrs. Collins's floor. I can have towels sent for, and perhaps you had better - "

"No!" Darcy cried, for he knew she was about to say he'd better go. He sat in order to show his determination to stay, then realized that he was ruining Mrs. Collins's chair upholstery in addition to her floor, and he shot up to his feet again. He paced to the mantelpiece, then back to the ruined chair, then back to the mantelpiece. There was a feverish anxiety shaking him with his steps, igniting and forming a white fire when he turned his head and saw her sitting in her loveliness, holding about her beautiful person the shawl from yesterday - the day they had stood so close and spoken so warmly. He stalked toward the mantelpiece once more,…then felt in his waistcoat pocket for the sapphire ring and now probably drowned flowers. He came determinedly toward her, opened his mouth, and tremulously…intensely began:

"I - In vain I have struggled... It will not do. My feelings...will _not_ be repressed. You must allow me to tell you...how _ardently_ I admire...and love you.

"Ever since Netherfield, I have been drawn to you. You have beckoned to me like a siren, time...and time again, and I have resisted, but no longer. You are my destiny. I will never... _never_ find another like you. I know that now as surely as I know...your eyes! The darkness of your - your eyes and your smile - the sweet curve of your lips. I'm surprised to still be living what with the countless - times - you have stopped - my heart. I know your station, your family and fortune to be a degradation, and I have tried...to rationalize! I have suffered nightmares of objections and arguments and ostracizing, and for months my mind has been in a state of..." He smiled. "... _Jumblement_. But now all is clear. I am certain that you are, and always will be, the love of my life, the sustenance of my breath. I love you...and I can't go on without you...

"Be my wife."


	17. Chapter 17

_Author's Note: Oh my goodness, you guys, guess what... _

_I updated faster. _

_Eeeeeee, enjoy! ;)_

* * *

><p>Chapter XVII<p>

And the Siren Smashed the Sailor on the Rocks

"I - In vain I have struggled... It will not do. My feelings...will _not_ be repressed. You must allow me to tell you...how _ardently_ I admire...and love you."

Elizabeth's mouth gaped in her shock. Longing to kiss the surprise from her lips, Darcy approached her chair. "Ever since Netherfield," he whispered as if revealing a life threatening secret, "I have been drawn to you. You have beckoned to me like a siren, time...and time again, and I have resisted, but no longer." The siren both colored and was pale; but in the flurry of her expressions she remained silent, the directness of her dark eyes turned up to his being his only encouragement to continue. "You are my destiny. I will never... _never_ find another like you. I know that now as surely as I know...your eyes! The darkness of your - your eyes and your smile - the sweet curve of your lips." Her eyes continued to mesmerize him with their unfaltering glow, and her sweet lips remained parted. "I'm surprised to still be living," he rasped, perhaps more towards himself than her, "what with the countless - times - you have stopped - my heart."

Suddenly, familial voices began screaming protests in Darcy's ears, and the somehow louder sounds of silent censure and exclusion were pounding against his brain. Guilt began to film over his love like steam on a window, and he could not see Elizabeth behind the heat and pressure. He turned from her, hoping to relieve himself of the suffocating fog. "I know your station, your family and fortune to be a degradation, and I have tried...to rationalize!" he insisted to the steam as he faced the mantle. "I have suffered nightmares of objections and arguments and ostracizing, and for months my mind has been in a state of..." He smiled, remembering the heavenly mornings he had spent at her side, and watched as the obstruction slowly faded and cleared. "... _Jumblement_." He turned to face her, straightforward and sure, once more. "But now all is clear. I am certain that you are, and always will be, the love of my life, the sustenance of my breath. I love you...and I can't go on without you...

"Be my wife."

Elizabeth had at last sealed her lips firmly together, and she was rigid in her seat. However, her color had heightened passionately and overcome all paleness. She was silent for a large space of time, leaving Darcy in a heart-thumping agony, for he was so hungry to hear her 'yes'; but, at length, she cleared her throat and spoke: "In such cases as this, it is, I believe,…the established mode to express a sense of _obligation _for the sentiments avowed - " _No, no, darling_,he thought, while feeling somewhat puzzled by her use of the word 'obligation' when he was sure she meant 'thanks'. " - however…unequally they might be returned."

… Sentiments unequally retur - ?

…_No. _

No, no, Darcy's mind protested, surely she must mean that she could not express her feelings as he had expressed his. _But the feelings… _He leaned against the mantlepiece, the better to distance himself from the pained confusion with which she was aiming to pierce him. _The feelings are there,…are they not? _

"It is natural that obligation should be felt,…and if I _could __**feel**_gratitude, I would now thank you." These words she declared with sardonic-faced censure, the next accompanied by bitter tears. "But I cannot… I have _never _desired your good opinion, and _you_ have certainly bestowed it _most _unwillingly." Leaving those words to echo in Darcy's stunned raw mind, she continued strong. "I am sorry to have occasioned pain to anyone," she asserted, seeming to desire to impress her goodness forcefully upon him. Then her voice was damnably blithe. "It has been most unconsciously done, however,…and I hope will be of a short duration. The 'feelings' which, you tell me, have _long _prevented the acknowledgement of your…regard, can have little difficulty! in overcoming it after this _explanation_."

Darcy's ever eloquent field of thought attempted to formulate some expression with which to describe…his _anguish_, but it found none. He heard only the sounds of far off choking sobs punctuated by animalistic growls in the undertone, saw only the color mixture of red fury and black despair, felt only empty air with the full, cheated sense of injustice brimming beneath the secluded surface. At last he focused his eyes upon her face; his brain registered the image of loveliness he now knew loathed him and recoiled from it like an oncoming dagger. But it came, nonetheless… And it scarred him. He - who had never been granted what he truly wished, had never dared even to ask for what he wanted - had at last expressed his desires,…and once again had had his feelings thrown back and into his face, to bruise him, and remind him that he was unworthy! He could scarcely stand the pain. And, like a child rejected, he wanted to scream at the unfairness, lunge himself hopelessly toward the large, looming monster of depression that glowered adult-like above him… Or perhaps sink to the ground and drown himself in his tears… But the man in him deplored shows of weakness.

…She would never be his wife.

…And why?

…Because shedidn't damn want his love.

_You could at least deny me gracefully_, a voice resembling that of the late, reproachful Mr. Darcy barked at her. _You could be grateful for my love, my love burning so bright and fighting so hard amidst a black storm of objections! _For many minutes he was unable to speak; his vocal intentions were fearfully lingering between violently upbraiding her like an animalistic brute or falling into childlike stutterings. In the end, he faced her like a man, and spoke like a _gentle_man,…all the while knowing that his eyes were like those of a stunned-cold child.

Darcy bludgeoned his mind and heart mercilessly until he at last established a forced calm, and then he spoke: "And this is the reply which I am to have the honor of expecting…" He _had _expected to be the most honored man in the universe, but clearly he was mere dirt for feminine shoes to trample unmaidenly upon. "I _might_, _perhaps_," he continued, adopting her stinging blitheness, "wish to be informed _why_… - with so little _endeavor_ at civility, - I am thus _rejected_… But it is of small importance." His words were all vengeful derision; but an undertone spoke true of self-deprecation. Why should he not be rejected? She need give no reason, Darcy thought, other than that he was who he was and she could not care for him.

Elizabeth detected no such undertone. "Well! - I _might as well_," she replied with strength, rising boldly from her seat to counter attack him, "inquire why - with so evident a desire o - of _offending _and _insulting _me!, - you chose to tell me that you liked me against your _will_? Against your _reason_? And even against your _character_? Was this not some excuse for incivility?! If I _was _uncivil?!" So - _he _was the one who had done the injustice? To his dismay, Darcy's anger was beginning to bubble and boil over his woes, promising either violence or thunderous bellowing beyond measure. However, Elizabeth's next words put a brief halt to Darcy's rising rage. "But I have other provocations," she continued, threateningly. "You know I have. Had not my feelings decided against you - … had they been indifferent, or had they even been _favorable_, - do you think that _any _consideration would tempt me to accept the man, - " She spoke the word 'man' with disgust, either not regarding Darcy as such, or emphasizing that she could not deign to speak directly of her denied suitor. " - who has been the means of _ruining_, perhaps _for ever_, the happiness of a most beloved sister?"

Darcy colored in his momentary confusion; but he then remembered the kind, smiling Jane Bennet, who had so easily won the heart of his dear friend Mr. Bingley that Darcy had found it necessary to separate the two. He felt some shame, - but it was instantaneous. Miss Bennet had returned the affections granted her with nothing more than grateful indifference, and Darcy could not stand for Bingley's being made a fool by a country girl who spun him sweetly and tiredly about her finger. Firm in his resolutions, Darcy looked down upon Elizabeth with an adopted expression of…spiteful contentment, his mind called it. His body relaxed against the mantlepiece with intentional ease, and he did not attempt to interrupt her in her words. "I have every reason," she persisted, "in the _world _to think ill of you. _No motive_ can excuse the unjust! and ungenerous! part you acted _there_." He did not respond, in expression or speech. "You - You _dare not_," she exclaimed, incredulous at his silence, "you _cannot_ deny, that you have been the principal, if not the only! means of dividing them from each other - of exposing _one _to the censure of the _world _for…caprice and…instability, and _the other_ to its _derision_ for disappointed hopes, - and involving them both in misery of the _acutest _kind…"

Again, Darcy bitterly found no reply to be necessary, though he knew Elizabeth had paused to hear how he would excuse himself of his oh-so-sinister actions. He even found himself able to bend his lips condescendingly into the slightest (the _very_ slightest) of smiles. She was working with so much effort to sketch him as the villain of their story, the big, bad blackguard baseless in his evils. It was pitifully…_adorable_, Darcy admitted with a slight pang in his chest, the drama with which she had declared his actions to have affected the _entire world_. She had made him sound like a dictator, plotting to achieve global domination through the pained feelings of a mere few; and her determination to see him as such was both delightfully silly and heartrendingly insulting. But Darcy hid his affection and pain forcibly behind a mask of smiling dubiousness, and remained silent. … "Can you deny that you have done it?" Elizabeth cried, her voice almost shrill. Darcy cleared his throat and at last replied with difficultly assumed ease: "I have no wish of denying I did _everything in my power_ to separate my friend from your sister,…or that I _rejoice_ in my success." As he uttered the words, he knew himself to be exaggerating in order to hurt; but he could not ignore the intensity of his wrath,…nor the ache of his rejection. He should have persuaded himself against his foolish tenderness! As he had persuaded Bingley! The pain he now felt could have been easily avoided, Darcy thought, feeling the acid burn of acknowledged stupidity and ingenuousness, had he kept his head and denied his daydreams. "Towards _him_," Darcy continued slowly, words hard and heart heavy, "I have been kinder than towards myself…" Elizabeth seemed to find more offense than guilt with that statement; Darcy could practically see her mind bolstering additional insults and accusations, readying itself to make brutal backfire. "But it is not merely this affair," she charged on, boldly stepping forward, "on which my dislike is founded." Dislike? Damn, Darcy inwardly cursed in both sadness and outrage, she looked ready to throw him off a cliff and skip gleefully away, without caring to hear him hit ground. "_Loooong_ before it had taken place my opinion of you was decided. Your character was unfolded in the recital which I received many months ago…" She crossed her arms with malevolent smugness. "… From Mr. Wickham." _Wickham. I am going to find that man and give him the beating he's deserved for years… I'm going to throw him down on his arse - in a __shit__ pile! - and present him with an organized list of the many ways in which he has ruined my life… And then I'll do it all to him. _

Elizabeth continued pressing the weight of his imagined crimes upon him, but Darcy scarcely heard her words. "On this subject, what can you have to say?" _I'll bring his mother back to life and then I'll scoff at the sight of her stone cold corpse. _"In what imaginary act of friendship can you here defend yourself?" _Then I'll bring his father back to life and play the golden boy while secretly wasting his papa's money at every whorehouse in England. And then I'll find him a sister for me to seduce and leave heartbroken. _"Or under what misrepresentation can you here impose upon others?" _Then! He'll at last find contentment from all this misery in the perfect eyes of a woman he loves... But she'll refuse him; because I will not only inform the woman that her lover conjures 'misrepresentations' on a constant basis, but that he comes from the very devil himself! _He was certain Mr. Wickham had told her no less.

Elizabeth had at last finished, and now waited for him to express his great remorse for his misdeeds. He would gift her no such satisfaction. He squared his shoulders. "You take an eager interest in that gentleman's concerns..." he half-growled, color heightening.

Elizabeth carried on in spite of his silent warning. "Who that knows what his misfortunes have been - " He made his eyes cold and penetrating, finding sinister satisfaction when she quailed from his stare. " - c - can help feeling an interest in him?"

"_His _misfortunes?" She was enraging him with such invasive potency that Darcy felt liquid fire flowing through his veins. But he was slowly gaining control through his venomous calm...and could not relinquish it now. Darcy's lips bent just slightly on one side, forming what would be a smile if dangerous heat weren't emanating from his every pore. "Mmm, yes," Darcy leaned his head forward and whispered with rich sarcasm, "his misfortunes have been very great indeed..."

"_And of your infliction!_" Elizabeth cried, now truly piqued, "you have reduced him to his present state of poverty! Comparative property!" _No, darling, I think the gambling tables did that. _"You have withheld the advantages which you must know to have been designed for him! You have deprived the best years of his life! of that independence which was no less his due than his desert!" _Oh yes, Wickham deserved the opportunity to taint the Church. _"**YOU** have done all this!" That '**YOU**' was like a iron blow to Darcy's gut; it struck tender, then rose furious and fire-breathing, reaching his head and making him raise one indignant brow. "And yet you treat the mention of his misfortune with contempt and ridicule..." Good God, she was disappointed in him, Darcy realized. Severely, contemptuously disappointed in his behavior.

He would stand for this no longer. She had treated his heartfelt proposal with ungratefulness, disrespect, and contempt; she had taken his loving words and spun them into a foul clay pot filled with prejudice and pride; and she had assumed the very worse of him from a man who was a stranger to her! He could scarcely believe her foolishness! And it was that foolishness which at last snapped Darcy's firmly held control. He bared down upon her in three sinister steps, meeting her a mere inch from her upturned face, and soliloquized with more strength and clarity than he had ever lent a single word:

"_And this!_" he cried as he took his three steps across the room to attack her, "is your opinion of me! _This _is the estimation in which you hold me! Mmm, I thank you for explaining it so fully. My _faults_ according to this calculation are..." His mouth dipped maliciously, wickedly nearer her ear. "... _Heavy _indeed... But perhaps..." He stepped past her, intentionally torturous, then turned back to face her with his charges against her injustice. "These offenses might have been overlooked, had not your pride been hurt by my _honest confession _of the scruples that had long prevented my forming any serious design. These _bitter _accusations might have been suppressed, had I, with greater policy, concealed my struggles!" He came in close proximity again, his deep voice increasing in volume in spite of the closeness of Elizabeth's face. "Oh, and _flattered you_ into the belief of my being impelled..." Here his words swooped and swelled in a bitter exaggeration of foolhardy romanticism. "Impelled by...unqualified!...unalloyed! inclination. By _reason_, by _reflection_!..." Then Darcy lowered his voice, ready to approach her accusations and defend himself with gravity. "By everything... Nor am I ashamed of the feelings I related... They were _natural_...and _just_."

Darcy shifted his gaze in order to catch Elizabeth's reaction in the corner of his eye, but her head was lowered, and in a moment of white, hot, angry terror Darcy thought she hadn't listened to a word. "_Could you expect me to rejoice in the inferiority of your connections?!_" he cried. Elizabeth hurriedly lifted her head, and her indignant expression told Darcy she had heard his explanation. Still, he felt it necessary to impress his feelings upon her with even more force, to brand her stubborn heart with the imprint of his difficulties, if not of his love. "To _congratulate _myself on the hope of relations, whose condition in life is so _decidedly _- _beneath _- _my own?_"

"You are mistaken, Mr. Darcy," she cried in return, face pale with anger but composure still intact, "if you suppose that the mode of your declaration affected me in any other way,...than as it spared me the concern which I might have felt in refusing you, - had you behaved in a more gentlemanlike manner."

_No. No. _Fitzwilliam Darcy was unsure of himself in many respects, but he was _certain _he was a gentleman, who behaved as a gentleman should behave. Darcy opened his mouth, intending to assure her that if his affections so insulted her he would gladly return them!; - but he sealed his lips, knowing that was a lie, and feeling a longing for her still.

Elizabeth continued her stabbing speech most willingly. "You could not have made me the offer of your hand in _any possible way _that could have tempted me to accept it."

That was when the knife at last passed fully through Darcy's heart.

_Any possible way_... Whether or not he had uttered his 'insults', she would have denied him. If he had raced to her side on a white steed, dressed in a knight's shining armor, she would have refused his hand. Even if she had succumbed to him and been found _pregnant_, she would have preferred lifelong disgrace to marriage with him! _Why? _Darcy thought desperately. _**Why? **_ He thought of his face and manners, his voice and characteristics, and suddenly he began to feel ill with his self-hatred. He hoped there wasn't a looking glass in the room; he would see his ugliness and empty the sick from his stomach then and there. God, he almost hated her for lowering him to such weakness! And yet he could not believe she would bring him to this, - not her, not his glittering, lovable darling...

Elizabeth visibly noted his distress, and simply continued. "From the beginning - from the _first moment_, I may almost say! - of my acquaintance with you, your manners, - " Oh, shit, he knew it was his manners! " - impressing me with the _fullest belief _of your arrogance, - " Shit. " - your conceit!, - " Shit! " - and your selfish _disdain _of the feelings of others!, - " _Shit! _" - were such as to form the _groundwork_..." Groundwork?! What was this, a fucking floor plan of the house she had dropped on him?! "...of disapprobation, _on which _succeeding events - " She alternately raised her hands up and over each other in the contemptuous construction of the house's upper levels. " - have built so _immovable _a dislike! And I had not known you a _month _before I felt that you were the _last _man...in the _world_...whom I could _ever _be _prevailed upon _to marry!"

And that was it, Darcy realized.

Even if he were the _last man in the world_, Elizabeth would not trust him with her heart, nor take his heart into her protection. Very slowly a realization dawned, of all that he had hoped to gain and had now lost,...eternally. He peered at her beneath his eyelashes, studying her features for what he felt certain would be the last time. He was so close to her, less than a nail's length from her suddenly pinkening face,...and yet it wasn't close enough. In spite of her obvious distaste in all that he was, he wanted to kiss her lips as his wife's lips, to touch her worshipfully as the woman of his heart and home: - but his woman or wife she would never be... He found himself leaning even farther into the thin line of frozen space they had created between them. He would never hold her in his arms,...never watch her sleep,...never lovingly caress her skin... His still rain-rinsed lips parted slowly, then began a slow descent towards hers... They would never be known as the well-suited man and wife - the couple whose love for one another sparkled in their eyes, the couple who overcame disputes and disparities, the couple who bore a multitude of sweet, precious children... Perhaps it was Darcy's imagination, but he could have sworn Elizabeth rose a bit on her tip toes to meet him... He would never live the gloriously gratifying and humbling pride of knowing that he was hers, and she his... The slightest peaks of the tops of the tips of his lips dipped almost indistinguishably down...and at last felt the corner of her mouth, in a touch so light it seemed a wandering of the air, and yet so perfect that Darcy thought he'd die...

And then he stopped.

As desperately as he wanted to kiss and caress her, as much as he wanted to lick her lips, and as smooth and sweet as he could now feel and know with certainty her lips to be... He realized that she would never truly be his. She would never give herself to him as he gave himself to her... Because she did not love him, could not love him, would not love him. He would kneel at her feet, kiss her toes, give her all it was in his power to give, but she would never do the same for him... Because she would not love him, could not love him, - did not love him. It would be selfish to compromise and consume her, when she did not desire to accept his affections or return them with her own. He loved her...and would not be selfish to her.

"You..." he breathed against her lips, causing her to drop her shawl. He was resolved in his intentions the moment he felt the fabric fall to his feet: - he would behave as the gentleman he insisted he was, and would not force his repulsive self upon her. "You...have said quite enough, madam," Darcy took a step from her and carefully retrieved her shawl from the wet ground, (made wet by by his rain-sopping clothing). "I fully understand your feelings,...and have now only to be ashamed of what my own I have been... Forgive me," he whispered as he placed the shawl chivalrously and lovingly about her shoulders, "for having taken up so much of your time,...and accept my best wishes for your health...and happiness." Then he left the room, left the house,...left her - through the rain that no longer seemed like a blessing, without a care for the state of his clothing or physical condition.

* * *

><p>Lady Catherine was later heard to declare that the carpets were permanently damaged after Darcy's return from Hunsford Parsonage that evening.<p>

With rigid solemnity Darcy walked a death march through the many twisting halls of Rosings, creating a puddle-deep trail of rain water that thinned to the size of ribbons at the threshold of his bedchamber door. Darcy entered, closed the door softly behind him, and without thought began to remove his clothing. His mind was empty of all that had occurred as he unbuttoned his coat and abandoned it to the floor, along with his waistcoat, cravat and shirt. It was when he remembered the ring and flowers in his waistcoat pocket that the reality of his situation addressed itself to his dazed conscious. Darcy swallowed, carefully retrieved the poor, useless items, and took them to the adjoining dressing room in the cradle of his hands. _Poor, poor things_, he thought as he set the drenched little things lovingly yet disgustedly in his box of personal knick knacks. _Rejected, as I was. _

… _As I was. _

Darcy raised his eyes, and there before him was his reflection in the standing mirror, tropical and almost unrecognizable to him now. But he knew himself by the ugliness of his face. His eyes were not normally so wild, so glassy; but they were _his_ bright, hard, unstimulating orbs. His skin was not normally so pasty white; but it was _his_ cold flesh pulled tight over his sharp, intimidating bones. Oh God, and then there was below his head, his grotesque broadness, he looked like an animal! Darcy could feel his stomach convulsing with every noted physical flaw; but then he thought of how much worse he was on the inside, and he truly felt a lurch. _Arrogance! _Elizabeth's voice shot at him from the looking glass. _Conceit! _"No," he whispered desperately. _Selfish disdain of the feelings of others! _Good God, he was her monster!

Beginning from the time of his youth, Fitzwilliam Darcy had striven to make himself a gentleman who would be the pride of his parents,…the pride of his world. Daring another glance at his reflection, Darcy saw a faint glimmering of the boy he had once been, and he wondered if beneath childlike longings there truly had been the seeds of arrogance, conceit and disdain. He had only wanted to be what was expected of him, and to thereby receive what a man such as he deserved!

And dammit, he deserved…_respect_.

He was humiliated, disgraced! He had offered his heart and all his wealth to a woman who saw him as the scum of the earth! Would his parents take pride in such a foolhardy son?! Arrogance, conceit, and disdain! - _Selfish _disdain! Selfish?! The only time Darcy could recall acting strictly on his own desires was when he proposed! And - _damn! _- how splendidly that had turned out! Arrogant? Conceited? No, no, he was no such man! He was…

Darcy slowly sank to the ground.

He was…

He was good! He was foolish, but he was good! Or, at least, he had always striven to be…

Whatever he was, there was some damned _something _so wrong in him that Elizabeth would not consider him. What the hell _was _wrong with him?! Darcy's thoughts screamed as he rose once more to his booted feet. What massive pile of foul waste had he missed in sweeping away his garbage?! For month after endless month Darcy had watched Elizabeth, dreamed Elizabeth, written Elizabeth, loved Elizabeth, all the time secretly hoping that she would see his self-improvement and admire him. But she had sensed _it_. That something vile that he had missed. He could see it perfectly, he approaching her with his heart exploding in his chest, while she discreetly wrinkled her nose at the something's stench. Oh, but she hid her disgust well, and she had continued to charm him, waiting until the proper moment wherein she could adequately smash his heart. _Well, what the hell so disgusted her?! _It couldn't be strictly those damned matters about Bingley and her family and her oh-so precious Wickham, no, there was something else, some personal complaint she had discovered that spoke of malice and greed beyond the imagination of Darcy's own self-hatred. What could he have done to inspire such a negative representation of himself? Was it his physical appearance? Was it some evil whisper of the inner soul that she had glimpsed and caught? Or…

Or was he simply vile? Was he simply formed of some repugnant scum?

Darcy raised his eyes to meet his reflection once more, and instantly smelt the evil, revolting fumes as they clouded about his entire body. The odor withered his nostrils, burned his eyes, even made his tongue wrinkled and numb. It was everywhere, surrounding him like an impenetrable fog. _Fault, fool, fault, selfish, arrogant, selfish, fool. _The words burst painfully in his ear drums, then flew off and into the mirror that held his reflection.

The mirror.

Yes, yes, it was the mirror's fault! The mirror had brought the vileness, the damnable sight of himself! _It wasn't me! _he could tell Elizabeth. _It was that ass in the looking glass, blame him! _

He would destroy it. Yes! He'd demolish the thing, and then he'd be free! Darcy grasped some unidentified object in his shaking hand and drew his beast-ish arm back, now well beyond the realms of realistic foresight. He would smash the mirror, smash that hideous man glowering at him in there, and all would be well! He'd be married by morning! But Darcy knew as he took that first swing that nothing would be changed…the loathsome man would remain with him still, in that mold of repugnant scum that was himself… Himself… God!… He **hated **himself!

_Smash! _A spiderweb explosion of glass shattered the image of his face. It did no good, he could still feel atrocities burning in his cheeks. _Smash! _His brutish chest was gone, but he still felt like some cave-bred animal.

_Smash! Smash! Smash! _

… Then he was gone… All gone… Nothing of him was visible now, from the hair on his skull to the tips of his toes… And it felt so sinfully _nice. _He would get through this! he assured himself. His body was still clenched in the hands of vileness, but at least he could be in sweet denial of his foulness now. He would live. He could maintain control.

And then Richard appeared.

The colonel entered the room in haste, then slowed until run down by what he saw before him. He stared at his cousin, then at the smashed mirror, then at his cousin, then at the shards of glass on the floor, then back at his cousin, then at the tall, thin hatrack in his cousin's curled fist. "…Darcy,…what the hell?"

"Out."

"_What?_"

"Get _out!_" Darcy roared. Richard froze in shock, standing stock still with tongue lost for words. Darcy took advantage of the reaction and held firmly to his cousin's broad shoulders. "Thank you for stopping by, have a charming evening," Darcy growled as he led hid his cousin out the dressing room door.

"Darcy, I'm sorry this happened to you!" Richard bellowed, suddenly regaining his powers of speech as well as those of perception. "Truly, I am, but will you let go?!"

"Leave - me - _ALONE_."

The force Darcy was impressing upon Richard was practically sliding the man across the floor of the adjoining sitting room. "I'm sorry, Darce, I did put in a good word for you!" Richard assured him consolingly.

"There is no good word for me."

"I told Miss Bennet what a good friend you were to that young, bouncy lad, you know, when you persuaded him away from that girl he met in Hertfordshire!"

Darcy didn't even bother to stop in their march; at this point, _nothing _could surprise him. He shoved Richard all the way to his bedchamber door and tossed him unceremoniously out of it. "I'll send Kendall for you," Richard intoned as if offering condolences at a damned funeral. "No, thank you," Darcy answered, in a way that made his words sound like cuts and jabs. Then he slammed the door in Richard's face.

Darcy turned to face the length of his large bedchamber; his vision scanned the proportionate walls, chest heaving as he attempted to return himself to _his _previously made proportions. _The mirror is dead…_ he reminded himself. _I will live… I can maintain control. _But then Darcy remembered the sadness in Richard's eyes when he had seen the shattered glass, the concern in his square chin when he murmured that he would send Kendall… There was something in sentiment, Darcy realized, that controlled whether it would be held behind a barricade or let free. Sentiment feared its own power when blockaded in the lonely, gray, repressive wall of its owner; but when a loved one invaded the fortress,…sentiment rose and overflowed, creating a waterfall destructive by the strength of its river's current.

Darcy lowered his level gaze to the large, empty floor. He lowered himself to it against his volition, remembered the love of the family relation that had stood there, and curled his knees up and towards him for companionship. The sentiments were rising… Darcy swallowed, pressed his palms against the rug, hummed a bloody nursery song, anything to force the feelings down!

But he was not strong enough. The sentiment rose,…overflowed in him,…

And for the first time since his mother's passing, -

Fitzwilliam Darcy cried.

He cried with all the pain he'd felt that night, his tears as hot and prolific as his self-loathing. He felt like a child, but he didn't damn care! His face screwed up hideously, and he bawled into his knees, pressed his head with his hands, all the while hacking, weeping, moaning like a boy of six, rapidly and gutturally. To Darcy this seemed to go on and on, endlessly tearing at the deepest part of his chest; but once his tears had so exhausted him that he was forced to establish calm, Darcy found himself making the sounds of his chocking sobs and plaintive wails into his own solace. When they slowed, they were almost like a lullaby: _…Wheeze…Sob…Whine… _Shit, he felt so stupid_…Cough…Wheeze…Sob… _He felt like he could die-_ie_-_ie_… _Sob-sob-sob…Breath…Wheeze…Cough… _"God…" he whimpered into his knees. "Siren… Bloody siren…"

A few minutes later, Darcy had fallen into a half-asleep, half-awake-and-demonized state. Whether it was two seconds or two hours after that that Kendall knocked from the adjoining chamber, Darcy could not say. "Sir?" he heard Kendall call. "Sir?" Darcy lifted his head just enough so that his voice would travel over the barricade he'd made with his legs. His red eyes were dry now, and his throat was only partially raw as he called back in a confined, but carrying tone: "…Enter."

Kendall needed no further urging; the faithful valet all but ran into his master's bedchamber, rushed to the master's side, took in the miserable sight of him, and held out assisting hands. "Bring me my traveling escritoire, Kendall," Darcy muttered before his servant could touch him. His weeping had drained him of all self thought; now empty, Darcy felt the sudden yearning for a pen, tipped in solemn ink with which to narrate what neither violence nor tears could bring to rest.

* * *

><p>As soon as Darcy was comfortably seated at his traveling escritoire, and the space had been illuminated by the glow of several candles, Darcy felt cold, paralyzing inspiration in his bones. Kendall had rung for his supper, but Darcy could not eat, could not even consider eating when big, black words were shuddering in his mind.<p>

_There once was a Sailor, witless but good, who sailed the most promising seas. The ship on which the Sailor sailed was large, its many cargos stocked with plentiful riches, treasures won by his valiant effort and unmatched strength of will. The Sailor could have for his taking any maiden at any port he happened upon, and the meddlesome crew often urged the man to take one of these for his wife. 'Witless but good you've made your life, Witless but good should take a wife,' they sang in a seaman's shanty._

_But the Sailor was foolish enough to find another treasure amongst the seas, the greatest and most troublesome treasure ever dug or discovered: - love. _

_One night, when his ship had taken him to uncharted waters, the Sailor was awoken from his slumber by the sound of sweet, shrill, songbird notes, rising and falling above the crash of the waves. The Sailor was awed by what he heard, and he went with haste to the deck of his beloved ship, to look for the source of the singing on the horizon. _

_And there he saw a sight more beautiful than any that had ever crossed his gaze: - more radiant than diamonds, more lustrous than gold, more tempting than tropical delicacies. Not ten yards from the ship sat a Siren on a rock, with near-black eyes that held the Sailor in her intoxicating song. 'She is no monster, as they say,' his heart whispered with the melody, 'she is my angel, on earth she must stay.' _

_The meddlesome crew saw how their beloved Sailor had been taken by the Siren's charm, and they reminded the Sailor that a Siren only took a seaman in her arms to pull him beneath the seductive, temperate waves. The Sailor listened; the Sailor doubted; the Sailor pondered; the Sailor feared. But his heart beat to strong for the love of the Siren, and only the Siren his heart would have. _

_Against all warning, the Sailor lowered himself in a dinghy, and rowed against the black, stormy waves to declare himself to his beloved. At last the Sailor glimpsed his Siren's lovely form! He fell to his knees at the sight, and he called to her: "Siren! Sweet Siren!" _

_"Too, too long," the Siren sang, "You took far, far too long. I sang my song, So long ago, Oh why did you not come?"_

_"I was afraid!"_

_"Afraid, you say?"_

_"Afraid I would be drowned! You cannot blame me for my fears, my darling, you cannot! A Siren's known to do such things, - but I know you will not."_

_"Drowned, you say?"_

_"Yes, drowned. But, oh, Sweet Siren, I love you. I love you more than my life. If you held me and drowned me beneath the waves I would not die in strife."_

_The dinghy was nearing the Siren's rock, but the Siren looked unpleased. She tipped her head to its lovely side, teasing the Sailor with thoughts of a kiss. Then the Siren threw her voice into a lovely, swooping song. It swooped and it soared beyond the safety of her rock. She impelled the Sailor to follow the song, to row to the side with the tipping of her head, to sail to the most uncharted of all uncharted waters. _

_You see, the Siren was insulted by the Sailor's words. She took his fears to offense. She thought it better she cast him off than kill him with her kiss. And the Siren sang… And the Siren led… And the Siren urged... _

An image flashed through Darcy's mind of the shattered standing mirror.

_And the Siren smashed the Sailor on the rocks._

Darcy stopped, reread what he had written, and sighed. "The Siren smashed the Sailor on the rocks… And even smashed in thousands of dead pieces he loved her, blast it all to hell."

"What was that you said, sir?" Kendall whimpered from his adopted station five feet from his master.

"Nothing at all, Kendall… Nothing." Oh, how Darcy wished with all his heart to read this to Elizabeth, to explain how he had perceived his situation, to ask her to look at him in a different (and, hopefully, more complimentary) light. Darcy reread the tale, imagining Elizabeth's reactions to each word and phrase, and realized with bitter disgruntlement that his writing, his thoughts, his entire life was nothing but adolescent nonsense. If he wanted to argue his case to Elizabeth, it would better for him to make firm excuses based on concise facts and personal principles. Like an adult.

An adult who hadn't sat on the ground weeping, then written a story about mermaids.

_Shit._

He crumpled the fairy tale in his hands and tossed it to the ground.

After several hours by candlelight (and several sheets of paper), Darcy had written a businesslike letter of explanation, addressing every one of the 'cruel actions' of which Elizabeth had accused him: - his separating Bingley and Jane Bennet, his 'devastation' of Mr. Wickham, and Elizabeth's insults against her family and connections. As regarded his interference in Bingley's affairs, Darcy had little to do but to explain that he had believed Miss Bennet indifferent to Mr. Bingley's affections, and to detail just how he had worked in the service of his friend. Excusing himself of misconduct toward Wickham was almost too easy; Darcy explained that the contents of his late father's will were strictly optional, told of Wickham's wasting the large sums of money Darcy gave him in loo of the settlement, and he even found himself trusting Elizabeth with the tale of Georgiana's near ruination that dreadful summer. As far as his insults against Elizabeth's family were concerned, Darcy could say little but that her younger sisters, father and mother were…disagreeably untoward. He hated to pain her by speaking of her family thus, and he even wrote of that pain in his letter; but he could not refrain from the truth after having been charged with 'misrepresentations'. Rather than sign his final draft as he _wished _to sign it ('_Hoping you won't be the death of me, Darcy_'), he wrote: '_I will only add, God Bless You, Fitzwilliam Darcy_'. And he hoped, with all his heart, the Lord would grant her every blessing with which He could grace her.

The following morning, Darcy dressed himself as decently as his shabby heart would allow, and walked the poignantly familiar paths of and around Rosings Park. There was no little Clarissa to lead him now; Clarissa Anne and her pink ribbons and pretty smile would never exist. He knew that now and, reluctantly, had accepted it. Yet, the dimwit romantic that he supposed would always live in him retained some slight hope that Elizabeth would see him traipsing the Park in search of her, run to his side, give him the kiss they had barely started and tell him 'I love you'.

Eventually, Darcy caught a glimpse of her beautiful form standing in the Park gates. "Elizabeth!" he called. _Miss__ Elizabeth, shit! _Elizabeth had looked ready to retreat, but his call put her to a regretful halt as he approached her, letter in hand. Her continuous desire to avoid him piqued the anger Darcy had felt the previous night; but she could not avoid _this_, Darcy thought, as Elizabeth unconsciously took the letter from his hand. Bloody Siren, would she even read it? "I have been walking in the grove some time in the hope of meeting you…" he explained, ferocious in his carefully established composure, "Will you do me the honor of reading that letter?" He wanted to stay, to drink in her captivating presence, to hear her witty words… It would be the last time he saw her… And he didn't want to let her go.

_She wants to be let go_, a forlorn voice inside him moaned. _Let her go. _

He did. He bowed and he left her, without another word.

But every retreating footstep whispered to him of the Siren he loved. And he knew, wherever he walked…

He would be smashed against the rocks.


	18. Chapter 18

_Hello, lovely, wonderful readers. Here is a long ago written chapter, that my friends and family made me afraid to post. They believe that my writing is so good, someone might attempt to steal it. But I have faith that all will be well. I trust you all with all my heart. So here is chapter eighteen! I apologize for the horrible delay, and I hope it meets everyone's expectations._

Chapter XVIII

Resurrection

"We leave tomorrow morning at first light."

Richard stared at his cousin from his unfortunate seat beside Lady Catherine. "Tomorrow? Darcy, don't you…" Richard lowered his voice meaningfully. "Don't you think you had better stay and work out - "

"There is nothing to work out," Darcy interrupted without a trace of emotion. "We have managed all of our aunt's affairs, seen that the estate is in good order. What more is there to be done?"

Lady Catherine's cane _thwacked _the ground with an indignant _thwack_. "There is _much _more to be done. You have scarcely been in the company of your own aunt these many days, Darcy, and Anne, too, has felt your neglect." Anne colored as much as her pale face would allow, frowned with annoyance, and was silent.

"I am terribly sorry to have so neglected you and my cousin, Aunt Catherine, but I am afraid we must be gone." Aunt Catherine looked very much inclined towards taking her cane and pinning both of her nephews to the ground; but Darcy had spoken in a voice that brooked no argument, and her ladyship did not argue in action or word.

Later that day, Darcy and the colonel made the walk to Hunsford Parsonage, Richard having insisted that they could not leave Kent without bidding their friends farewell. "They are no friends of mine," Darcy almost growled as his feet angrily ate at the path to the parsonage.

"Well, perhaps if you cease acting like such a damned beast," Richard replied reproachfully, "_one _of your friendswill have a change of heart."

"She will not be there and her heart will not be changed." Darcy knew that with a bone-deep certainty: - Elizabeth would not be present to make good byes to him, and she probably hated him more now than she ever had. But there was still some foolish hope in Darcy's heart, a vision in his mind of a flurry of skirts as Elizabeth rushed to meet him at the gate, to tell him she had changed her mind and that she loved him with all her might. Darcy literally felt his soul droop and wilt when Mrs. Collins informed them that 'dear Lizzie' was still out walking. He immediately said one good bye to the entire room and left the parsonage without another word.

The next morning, Darcy rose earlier than the sun, readied himself with lifeless indifference, and ensconced himself in the carriage without a single glance at what he was leaving behind. To Richard he scarcely spoke for the better part of an hour, and his cousin became well beyond irritation. "Darcy… Darcy… _Dammit, Darcy!_" Darcy at last turned from the window. He had seen nothing of what he looked on, but he knew they must be well beyond the gates of Rosings now; nevertheless, his eyes were colored gray by the rushing gloom of the outside, of its past. "Darcy, I understand," Richard sighed in a mixture of exasperation and compassion. "Really, I do… But there will be other

girls - "

"_No_." The negative was declared with great strength, and yet it was soft… Cracked and sad in its tone, but powerful in its solitary force as a lone cannon.

And there was little more spoken between them, through every rest stop and all the way to hell-heart London.

Mr. Darcy had gone to London with the intention of remaining for a mere fortnight, looking into the making of new investments, checking the progress of old ones, and discarding of any and all invitations. But Darcy could not pull his distraught mind towards work, and like an old, dilapidated creature found himself unable to exert his energies at all. Richard stayed at Darcy House for a few days, and the colonel very soon grew tired of observing in silent mourning the gradual decomposition of his stooping, rotting weeping willow of a cousin; - Richard's little attempts to ease Darcy's sorrow were ineffectual, and his subsequent absence from the house scarcely noticed. Darcy often rooted himself in a dreary corner to stare into an empty void of space, populating the dead expanse before him with the creeping, crawling memory of the disgusted loathing in Elizabeth's eyes as she declared him the last man in the world she would marry. He saw himself reflected in those dark, fine eyes and he saw a monster, sick and green and ugly. The sparkle in her gaze was outdone by the glint of his fangs - Oh God, he was a beast! He must be a beast! Why else would her rejection of him be as brutal and sharp as a wooden stake in his heart? The weeks passed, and London grew warmer, and untouched papers piled higher and higher till they grew moss, and the moss spread and devoured Darcy's core. He began envisioning his slaughter in the fog of his haunted desert; he saw the stake as it pierced his flesh, felt blood gushing from him… Perhaps his very nearly starving himself on a daily basis had made him a bit insane… But Darcy saw and felt himself to be an animal, queerly formed, shunned by the world in fear of his violent ugliness. He was the freak of the world!… And he was sickly, sinfully content with the title…

He could be the hatred of the universe. He could be killed by the daggers and pitchforks of a thousand angry men, and he would accept that fate with pleasure. But Darcy could not endure the hatred of the woman he loved more than his life. At night he dreamt Elizabeth was an innocent maid who lived in a cottage, and he the hairy brute who fell susceptible at her feet. She tamed the animal most beyond taming, - and then she kicked him dead. He always awoke despising himself for so yearning after a cruel mistress's care, but how could a stupid monster help himself? He, unadmirable horror that he was, had somehow gained enough humanness to hope, seek,…and lose. No longer did his heart give a single damn about the trifling generations of men, women, and children who barricaded themselves from his hideousness… He wanted _her _love… He needed her love…

And there was nothing else for him. What should he do if she would not love him? If he could not love her? - Simply slink into the shadows and remain there, hideousness hidden.

One smoldering, heavy afternoon, allotting to Darcy knew not how many such days in London, the secluded beast was visited by his valet. Kendall approached the sunken corner wherein Mr. Darcy sat and spoke cautiously to his blackened master: "Sir, should you not dress?"

Darcy's yellowed eyes flicked downward in the direction of his scantily clad form, but saw nothing before they returned to pierce. "No… You may occasionally evade my turning _all _animal by dressing me in a clean outfit just as this one - no more."

Kendall shuddered visibly at the thought of his talents forever wasted on mere lawn shirts and breeches, but in compliance remained silent and left the room.

Darcy turned the open hand upon his knee palm upward, and thought to claw his garments to shreds rather than endure Kendall's ministrations. He was coming to possess a barbaric impatience for all his world had made implicit; he had tired of Pemberley business and precisely wound pocket watches, of all the things he had once held vital and dear. But those were a gentleman's ambitions, and Darcy was now by no natural means a gentleman. That man was a stranger to him now. That man would carefully comprise and consider his stable, polite goals: - but the only ambitions towards which this new, unpersonable creature strove, were inexplicable attacks of fire and instinct.

Instinct. But what, in general passion, did instinct call towards? Certainly not the confinements of this socially required house. Confinements were meant to be splintered and destroyed, then gloriously escaped. Perhaps he ought not hide. Perhaps the world deserved to have their eyes burned at the sight of him, to see the lowliness he had been brought to. They would see… And they would pity… And then they would hear the rage he had all his life suppressed behind locked doors! Suddenly Darcy was very much invigorated; his thin, languorous blood came hot and in torrents, striking his pale skin to create bursts of wild color. He could stand now, - or crawl on his fours. He would take action towards the satisfaction of his hunger - take the town, bare his fangs at London. What events would there transpire none could be certain; but Darcy had caught the scent of straight English laces, and it stirred him like the blood of prey.

He rose on his legs. "_Kendall!_"

Darcy newfound vigor was twice disappointed: - first by the putting on of cravat, waistcoat, coat and boots, and second by an unexpected appearance.

As Darcy rounded the corner just two doors from his own townhouse, shackles of linen and leather constricting his angry steps, the setting sun peeked through the openings of an iron fence to shine directly in his eyes. He thought of Elizabeth, and the sun made him sober; he felt her escape his dark, demonized conscious, he could almost detect her atmosphere of goodness now, it must be she approaching! A silhouette became apparent in the center of the gold and red glow and he readied himself to fall to her…!

"Hallo, Darce!" slurred a slumping, somewhat intoxicated Sir Colin Stanford.

It was quite anticlimactic, really. However, Darcy was unsurprised. Such, he thought dispassionately, was his life.

"It is you, Darcy, isn't it? Isn't it?" Sir Colin stumbled for Darcy's hand and grasped it in a too-friendly shake. "You look very different, you know, I hardly recognized you! Very…" He tipped his head to the side as he thought, and the entirety of him nearly followed. "Nnnnnatural!" he cried, catching himself. "I like it. But I don't. Come, - walk with me! Oh, you were going the other way - Well, I'll go the other way too!" He spun the two of them about, staggered, and began to walk, fully expecting Darcy to follow him.

In his mind Darcy scoffed. He would never follow Sir Colin _anywhere_; not even to heaven, for he would probably take a shortcut through hell and choose to take up an afterlife there instead. Something within Darcy's core reacted with bile at the thought of hell: - with more force than was healthy to his body. But at the same time there was an excitement in him, a frenzy, a fever that was to a man cool as Darcy often was, an intoxicating promise. Despite the bile, should he not take hold of this chance? the promise whispered hotly. For molten thoughtlessness, boiling action, - real false living? Such was Sir Colin inevitably baited towards; and Darcy felt inexplicably inclined to be dragged along behind him in the slog.

"Sir Colin." Darcy stopped Stanford in his wavering footsteps and turned the man towards him. "Is there someplace we could go,…perhaps? Anywhere - Anywhere - " (and here Darcy was quite bold), " - at all?"

Sir Colin spent a quarter second in inebriated thought before replying with rasped wickedness, "My dear Darcy! Have you not heard of… The Abyss?"

"The Abyss?"

"Yes, The Abyss, the tavern I just abandoned, - quite unwillingly, mind. Glorious, glorious liquor! Dancing! Darkness!"

"Is this Abyss where you managed to so thoroughly," Darcy recoiled in disgust when Sir Colin breathed spirits in his face, "marinate yourself?" Darcy had never seen this man with the outward shows of drunkenness, no matter how many gallons of alcohol had been consumed.

"Hmm? - Ha! Darcy you make me out a roast chicken!" Stanford tipped back and forth on his feet with his laughter. "Oh!… Ohh….. What was the question? Ah, yes! Yes! Yes, that is just the place, my friend! It is just the place to go, because here is some wisdom!… It is not the quantity of the liquor… It is the quality."

"… Charming. Ah, - "

"Will you go there with me?" Sir Colin cried in an excited hope. "I was tossed out of the place; - but if I return with you, yes! yes! they will let me in again! If I bring them someone - !" Stanford looked up into Darcy's face, and his eyes settled deep, and for a moment he seemed to sober. "Yes… Yes, you will suit the darkness just grand."

The Abyss was truly _an abyss_.

It was like most taverns, every floorboard weighed down, cracked, and made black by cheap tables, cheap chairs, cheap people. There were candles melted down to their feet and men burnt out at the tips of their bloated heads; bar maids squealing, men guffawing, happied drunks singing, slighted drunks fighting, all that could be expected and was expected from an underground London establishment. But there was something else present. A breath of something selfish, thin as Darcy took the stairs down to the place, then thickening and becoming an almost audible rasp as he stepped through the low doorway. Was it the settled sound of sin, hidden in merriment? Or had he brought something down with him? Some new evil, born of his madness? Whatever it was, it stood heavy on Darcy's heart and made a mocking of him in his need. What did he need? Love? Or a drink? The thought of love, the mere mental utterance of the word pierced him and made his heart sink lower. A drink, then. A damn drink. _Drink, intoxicate my heart. Lift it up to places where no one can reach it, where it feels and wants nothing_. Darcy looked round the Abyss, saw all the hands and mouths holding liquor, and knew that he would be in good company. He dropped all his superlative senses, and he stepped inside the Abyss, where weeds could grow.

"Two gallons of your most fermented stuff!" Sir Colin bellowed in prediction of Darcy's desires. "This charming man is buying!"

All raucous noise ceased. Every gleaming eye looked on Darcy's face, then down at the fineness of his clothing. And there was one big, wild cheer, that reached the heavens, or wherever these people could reach. Then it was all animal chatter. "Plehsur ta meet'y, sar!" "Wat eh treet this is!" "Cum ohva 'ere 'n' sit wi' me, deerie!" Darcy stood, eyes wide, in the center of them all, and wondered what he was to do. But his head ached so he could not think. He raised one hand to his head, then raised the other, which suddenly held a drink. _A toast_, he thought in a pitiful, helpless drone. _To nothing_.

The first few drinks were positively nauseating. The moment Darcy threw the liquor into his mouth he wanted to throw it back. But the mysterious liquid made everything…fuzzy… And he liked having nothing to focus on, so he settled in a chair, had a few more drinks, and let his unnamed friends of darkness join him, devil may care.

He soon found himself in the company of six men. Or, at least, he thought there were six. One may have been a duplicate. Or perhaps they were all from his imagination, perhaps this whole place was a dream, no matter, another swallow. One of them was Colin. Good ol' Colin, Darcy thought. He ought to thank Colin for bringing him to this nice little hell hole where he could forget. One had an eye patch. Or was it a black eye? The third was fat and greasy and seemed to be saying all sorts of lewd things everyone wanted to hear. The next looked to be tossing off tens of pints of every kind of alcohol a minute. The one beside him was never without a barmaid on his lap. The last was small, skinny, and entirely unaware, but he cursed like a sailor, and they all thought it very funny.

"Call for another round, Darcy!" Colin cried with a great slap to Darcy's back.

"Another round," Darcy ordered, barking to a nearby barmaid in a louder voice than he had ever used. The barmaid brought another heaping round to the splintered table. She was busty, and the six men cheered, and Darcy appeared disgusted while inside he remonstrated himself for having noticed her.

"What the devil's the matter with you?" called the one with the covered eye, who comprehended nothing. " 'e needs a woman," the fat one drawled with an oily smile. "Wi' hips wide as the Nile an' a waist like straw…" The loose seducer broke away from the barmaid to supply, quite businesslike: "I know a lovely place not too far from here, - Madame Jezebel's they call it, most delicious girls you ev - Say, where do you think you're going, Lucy?" Lucy stayed. The skinny one paled before interjecting in an overloud voice, "Perhaps he's only unhappy."

"You don' know what you're talking m'bout," Colin almost sang with his head tipped up toward the ceiling. "Everybody's happy here, everybody's greeeeeat!" Skinny boy looked stung and embarrassed. "Well, _fuck_ to you, then," he shot back.

There was some silence, in which menacing shadows grew taller on the walls; they rose to their fullness as Darcy slowly opened his mouth, and he muttered: "You know, I 'm unhappy… As a matter of fact." They all looked to him, eyes wide, anxious for his words, anticipating the spilling of a gentleman's heart (almost as much as they would cherish the spoil of its contents). Darcy wondered for a moment why in God's name he would impart his feelings to these snakes of men; then he took another gulp of his drink, and he continued: "I 'm so…so displeased."

"Des-pleeeeeeased," Colin echoed in a chuckling hiss. "Why? With whommm?"

"With _me_."

The men looked on him with twelve eyes of collective wonder. Or was it twenty eyes? That one man who was getting to be a blur seemed to entirely abandon his barmaid, so great was his surprise. "What the hell's the matter with you? You don't _like_ yourself?"

"I think you're fantastic," someone murmured as he called for another round, to be paid, of course, out of Darcy's pocket.

"No, I'm not!" growled an almost defensive Darcy. "I'm a…mmmonster!... I'm hideous. And selfish. And inconsiderate." Everyone there seated had already ceased to listen, but Darcy went on in his self-incrimination, the setting and the people surrounding him making his faults blacker and more gruesome than ever. "I'm an idiot. And not a single word from m'damned mouth comes out properly! And 'm always behind! always left aside! There mus' be something wrong with me, I know there is!" He felt the bilious contents of his heart thickening as it pounded harder, harder against his ribs. "I – I'm unlovable! S – S – S – _She_ – " Everything within him convulsed on that word's difficult fall from his lips. "She told me so."

Now the lewd one was listening. "_She_?" he very well guffawed. Then everyone was attentive, and Darcy could almost feel his numbed face heating with a blush. "E – Elizab – b – " He couldn't say her name! It made hopes and crushed them, all over again…

"Elizab?" the especial drunkard slurred. "Odd name for a gel…"

"Well, well, tell us about this Elizabbb, Darcy," said Colin, in a voice like that of an interfering matriarch.

Darcy leaned gently forward, and he thought his chin was resting on the tabletop. His words were but a choked whisper, that the other six strained to hear. "She was… Beautiful." He pointed a condemning finger at the fat, dirty one, shutting the man up before he could speak. "Her beauty reigned _inside_!... And out." Darcy's head lowered to the table again, his eyes large and light, staring out at nothing. He began to remember; - dammit, he wasn't supposed to remember, he didn't want to! But she came to him, nonetheless… She, everything that was fiery and lovely… His head, for a moment, no longer felt as though it was weighted down, as she approached to make a place of comfort in his soul. But his heart, his human heart that knew its owner's folly, reestablished the truth: - that she hated him. He attempted to mask the hurt by closing his eyes. And then his sad words continued. "I proposed… She cast me off as if I were nothing…. And I am…nothing. I knew that…long ago… And now I know what's the matter with me! In h – her words… it is my _arrogance_. My _conceit_. My _selfish disdain for the_…the feelings of others… I knew I was something to be laughed at, but all those dreadful things!" He suddenly found his face down against the dampened table, and he moved his lips ever so slightly, craving a drop of liquor for his strength. "I thought," he moaned, "perhaps,…she would see past all that. That she would be the one t – to see…something better than what I could see in m – m'self… And I would have given her everything! Everything God should grant me!... But He grants me _nothing_! Nothing bu'…_this_! This…_tar _of a li'eform…that she would never want."

…

"That _bitch_."

Darcy's feet slammed to the ground as he picked his body up to its full height, and his metal hands lunged through the air to grab the thin little boy by his shirt. "You slithering little garden snake, you had better regret that word or I'll cut you into so many slices you'll never piece yourself together again."

'Whoa!' 'Oh!' 'Ah!' 'Steady, ol' boy!' The rest bellowed all such similar interjections as they made their short, slippery way to the tiny thing's aid. Darcy was forced to recede from his action; - his sudden strength gave way, and he realized his great stand had made him dizzy. He could do nothing but release the little blister and bend over himself in his agony. "Damn you!" the blister cried, not daring to say anything worse. "If I hadn'a been drunk I would 'ave killed you!"

"I wish you had!" Darcy yelled in answer. Then he dropped to the whisper once more, speaking to himself in words he had always feared he'd utter. "…Perhaps I'd better do it now… I ought to die. Pierce o'pain and nothing after it." He looked despairingly downward upon himself for a time… Then he struggled to raise his eyes. He thought sight must have betrayed him, for the men sitting round the table appeared sober in their overwhelming shock. "It matters little,…anyway," Darcy could easily, almost impassively, assure them, "whether I live 'r die. I may as well live, either way there's nothing for me… No healing after pain." They only stared. Darcy roared his annoyance. "Or perhaps I'd better die! I' this here is what my life has become! Sharing disgusting drinks w'mongrels!"

"Mongrels, are we?" the eye patched man replied. He smiled, and his other eye gleamed with unexpected foresight. "_We_, at least, have a care for ourselves. You're too busy crying to have a care, for anyone, within you."

Darcy was pierced. And then his stomach churned.

And if he did have a care it came up out of him with everything else.

"Ahhhhhh, Darcy!" Colin wailed. "You're so averse to your own damn self you had to spew your sick everywhere?!"

"Oh, damn, look at that," another gasped in one tone.

"Ahh, on my clothes!" the skinny thing screamed, and then proceeded to make a grand show of himself by spinning together every man-made curse till they all melded into one great ball of profanity.

Darcy was kneeled down on the sweat-encrusted ground, embarrassed and mightily ashamed. He would never look up again, he thought as he retched. He was unworthy.

He stopped and found breath. "Devil-made trash," he muttered softly to himself. Then he retched again. "Shit of the underworld…" And again and again he retched. Men soon took him under the arms and dragged him out, and he, limp as a dead animal, made his lamentations violent. "I – I'm a waste! I'm useless matter!" he shouted at the fools who had no idea of the force behind his words.

He was shoved up the stairs, out on the streets, and into the body of a passing man. "Oh, I'm so – Good God, Darcy?!" He knew that voice. It was Max Fading.

_A friend, a friend, at least I have one_. Darcy held desperately to Max's arms. "I – I – " Suddenly his mouth was unable to form more words.

Max helped him stand upright. "What's happened to you?!"

"I need…" What did he need? "Madame..." Damn and blast it all forever, what was the damn place called?! He shook off the thought as he shook his head like a man made wild. "Ask for a girl for me… With…brown eyes and hair – " He couldn't even _think _that sentence without sending up bile. So he retched once more. And before it all went black, there was impressed upon him a new, unheralded truth: - that among all sins self-hatred was the worst.

Darcy's head felt pierced when he awoke. He felt none of the comfort he had craved when he first stepped foot in…wherever the hell he'd been last night. He moved slightly, - making everything ache, - and let his eyes roll slowly open. After a moment of stinging haziness Darcy's eyes settled, and he found he was in his bed at Darcy House. A thought came forth, - a passive thought, as light and unattended as a habitual breeze. He ought have awoken to nothing. But the thought faded off when he felt the all-powerful pounding of his head. "Eugh… Aggh…" His throat was crumpled paper as he moaned.

Then Darcy heard a movement in the room. He made a lazy struggle turning his head toward the sound; and, when he did, he saw Max Fading standing over the bed, wearing a black, frowning face. For a while Max only glared, then he opened his mouth to pronounce in one insultingly succinct tone: - "_You idiot_."

Darcy did not even blink. Should he be enraged? Surprised? He wasn't. What he'd just heard was truth. "And…?" Unfortunately, that was all Darcy could manage. Whoever it was that brought him to this had beaten him down to the ground, and he could not rise, could not move a single muscle.

"Stop that! Stop it. Stop it _right now_. Don't you know how much it hurts me when you talk like that?" Max's face softened, and the look of indignant rage was replaced by one of gentle disappointment. He took a chair, drew it towards his friend's bedside, and spoke kindly, carefully. "Darcy... I know your mind. I know what kind of dreadful ideas you fill it with. I can tell just by your eyes you're regretting you ever lived." Darcy's limp form froze in shame. He lowered his eyes, and Max both whispered and cried: "…Why?"

"What the hell do you mean, 'why'?!" Darcy found the strength now; - he could not endure questions, nor could he answer them during his judgment. "You must know 'why', didn't you find me on a filthy, rotten street?"

"You know, I think _you_ found _me_…" That made Darcy's head hurt all the more. Max went on. "Clearly, something has happened. I don't mean last night's episode, I mean what led you to it. The impending snap of…whatever it is that's kept you from throwing yourself off a cliff. Don't forget, I've known you and your self-recrimination for several years. It is worse now… What's happened?"

How could he speak of himself? How could he, Fitzwilliam Darcy, disgusting baseness, stand and declare his troubles? How could he deserve it? Darcy forced his mind into better focus, and it began to create a story. Stories were meant to be told. Stories about other people, not him, not Fitzwilliam Darcy. "Once upon a time," he rasped, "there was a man…that no one –" Darcy felt Max frown. "_Almost no one_…liked. He never cared two twigs about it… But then a woman came. And he wanted her love. But she hated him more than anyone. And she told him so. And she refused his offered hand and heart. And he died. _The end_."

Rather than pity him, Max was incredulous. "You died, Darcy? This girl _killed you_? How could you possibly be so weak?"

"I _love _her!"

"All the same, your _life _shouldn't depend on another person's regard! Your _happiness_ should not rely on words said within a moment!" Max panted out his anger, until his breath was reduced to distressed exhales. "We could lose you…in a moment."

"Who would care?"

"_I _would care! Your sister would care! Bingley would care! _Your Maker _would care… And _you_ should care."

"My…Maker," Darcy muttered meekly, knowing himself unworthy, "must not care for me… He's made it so that everyone dislikes me." Darcy was not exaggerating in order to increase drama, extend pity. He really believed it was his lot in life, to be less than the world expected. To try and fail and be worse off for his efforts. To never help. To never succeed. So why would he be liked? Max began to reprimand, saw Darcy's feelings, and looked almost mournful.

"Darcy," Max began, leaning nearer to him, "do you know why you're disliked?" Darcy very lightly shook his head, still puzzling at this mystery of nature which had plagued him for decades. "Because you walk about like this." Max practically jumped from the chair, made himself to stand in front of Darcy's bed like a play-actor, took a breath –

And began slowly pacing back and forth like some sort of cross between an oppressed slave and an arrogant, self-made martyr. Handsome a man as he was, he looked almost ugly. His browed were raised, but his eyes slumped; his mouth frowned, but his chin was raised in challenge. He was rather gray. Rather careless. He looked like he hated the whole universe. And he enjoyed hating it.

… _No_. "I do _not _look like that."

"You do," Max insisted, "and every day you will look more and more like that, unless you change something." It was quiet declaration, worthy of a Grecian soothsayer. But Darcy, proud and blind as he was could not accept the words or the stance. He did not look like that! Like a man who'd locked himself in a box and made it home. Even if he did appear thus, he still could not see the justice in his being hated. Max released a sad little breath that was almost, but not quite, a chuckle. "Stretch my legs and deepen my voice and I'm you, to a tea." Max returned to his chair, and once again drew close to his friend, ready to impart more wisdom. "And do you know what people think when they see you…like that?" Darcy had no answer. "… They think you're opposed to life… And, by extension, everyone in it." Darcy thought…and turned away. "That's true, isn't it?" Max challenged. "You hate your life? Well, you'd better stop it, because you have so much!"

"So much?" Darcy turned over and shielded his face with his arm. "So much what? Wealth? Elizabeth didn't care. Virtue? No, clearly, I have none of that –"

"Oh, shut up!" Max snapped. Darcy quieted, but his breath began coming in gasps. "How," a more restrained Max continued, "did you propose to this Elizabeth?"

"I can't remember!" He remembered every word. "Something about…how I could not live without her…and how I had struggled, and that I knew her family and station to be a degradation – "

"A degradation?! You really said that to a girl?!"

"I was only telling the truth! I was only revealing my fears to the woman – I love more – than my life!"

"And that is _exactly_ where you went wrong."

Clearly, Darcy would never understand women _or _Max.

"Look at me."

Darcy groaned, took his bare arm from his eyes… And was surprised to see warmth, and understanding.

"Fear?" Max listed more than questioned. "You should have none. Loving a girl more than your life? From you, that must mean little… Seeing as you value your life at less than a pin's fee… You should not have spoken of struggle. You should have believed in your own strength of will! 'My family will oppose the match, but this is _my life_, and I will make _my own happiness_.' That is what you should have said. 'The world will oppose the match, but I am _stronger_ than the world's opinion!' _That _is what you should have said!"

"What the hell would that have done? Lead her to believe I'm self-confident?"

"_Yes! _That you love yourself!... How can you love your neighbor without loving yourself?"

Those biblical words instantly struck the air. Darcy's breath froze…and he could not help but look up.

"You need a change, Darcy… And I think you owe Someone an apology." Then Max stood, light as air, and left him, repeating in a pacifying hush, "You'll be alright, Darcy… You'll be alright..."

After a few days spent in recovery, Fitzwilliam Darcy forced himself to rise up, out of the hell of self-pity he'd made his bed, and go to church.

Kendall would not look into Darcy's face as he dressed him; the valet was angry, and ashamed of his master.

So as the bells rang clear the hour that would begin the Sunday service, Darcy was present among the congregation, feeling most undeserving. He had not been a regular attendant since… Well, since Rosings. He missed the air, the pattern, the peace of a church. Yet, at the same time, he felt somewhat scorched. Like demons who feared the name of God. Was he a demon? Was he…bad? Was he unworthy? He could no longer determine his moral state. So he looked up, into the lit stained glass, and began to weigh his heart.

He had…hated himself, and in such hatred had sinned. Now he hated himself for having hated himself, so he must be twice sinful. On the side of good…

Well, what had he done?

Max had instructed him to love himself. For Darcy that would prove a most difficult task; all his adult years had been spent blushing at compliments or mentally rebuking himself for pride in a job well done… _You have so much! _Max had cried. Well, he didn't want much! In fact, he wanted nothing! Nevertheless… What was it he had?

The choir of voices rose, and Darcy thought: …If he were writing thank you's to the Lord, thank you's like the ones his mother used to write after parties,…what would he write? What would he be thankful for? He did not want the Lord to think him ungrateful for his life, so, what would he be thankful for?

He…had a way with words. Words composed on paper, if not those spoken. He…

Was somewhat intelligent. Truthfully, he had been among the top students in his class at Cambridge; - he had not thought much of it, and had now quite forgotten.

He had some feeling. In spite of what the world seemed to think, he was not entirely heartless; - there were two girls he loved with an inexpressible amount of affection. And he loved…

Spirit.

He loved his own spirit, that something in him that made air tangible. Words were music. Movement was poetry. Darcy looked ahead, and the lines of the pews before him, all glossed and congruent, spoke something to him. As did _every_ line, curve, scrape, shine, arch, cough, smile! He was overwhelmed by this thing, filling his surroundings, - what was it?

As his soul whispered the question, out, into the oblivion,…there was warmth in answer. Darcy looked up to find its source, and saw the light beaming from the stained glass window, with more strength and brightness than there had been previously. Perhaps it was but the change of the hour. Or, perhaps, it is was one of his Dreams. But as Darcy acknowledged the gentle heat, ...and let it fill him, - he _heard_ a voice - that was not his own.

_Spirit_, it breathed. …_My Spirit. _

His Maker's Spirit… _That _was what it was. _That _was what was there around him. And Darcy could see it! He could feel His God's presence in every_one_ and every_thing_; - not many could say that! It was a gift…that his Maker had given him…

And here he was. Writing his thank you.

Darcy was _stunned_. Here, all this time, he had thought himself worthless, insubstantial, while unknowingly possessing a beautiful, powerful ability that was, itself, a direct link to the Eternal._ He could see God!_ There was no other way to describe it! And, dammit, he should have been grateful.

_Thank You_, Darcy whispered in his mind, - with pure thought and intent. A smile broke out onto his face. And suddenly he couldn't stop saying it. _Thank You, Thank You, Thank You… _And his smile grew wider, and his lips began forming forming the words, and the poor fellow next to him probably thought him mad. _Thank You, Thank You, Thank You, Thank You… _He thanked God for the Spirit, and he thanked God for his Dreams, and he thanked God pulling him out of that Abyss he'd traveled to. There was no need to lose himself! No need to regret or despise! If he knew God, what could he not do?! He _could _stand with confidence! By God, - _literally _by God! - he was strong! He _could _do it! It would take practice…and time… But he could and _would _do it. He would speak without fear, smile at someone simply because he knew _everyone_ to be of God, and never wonder whether he looked like an ass or did not belong. Everyone would see his courageous kindness! - and love him. Yes, love him; - he _deserved _love! And he would have love!

This inner journey had seemed only minutes in length; - but Darcy took note of the service and realized it was coming to its end. He made his resolve; - he promised the Lord he would practice the use of his talents, and socialize in order to share that spirit. He would be friendly, and generous. He would put people at an heavenly ease. And he would think of the happiness of others, - not the discomfort within himself.

Then, perhaps, he would be rewarded. Perhaps he would receive even more blessings, even more of that fire that had begun to take his heart. And then a happy future would come. Oh, thanks be to _God _for life! _Real _life, that life without end! Without it, he would not have escaped the Abyss. He would have been dust. Foolish, arrogant, misunderstanding, self-devouring _dust_.

From that desert he'd been raised.

Now he was _life_.

He was life.


End file.
